Of Ribbons and Roses
by FenixR
Summary: EC Covers the time between the fire and when the auction from the movie. Explains some of the oopses I noticed while watching the movie. Completed. I hope you enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Of Ribbons and Roses**

**Author's Note:** EC,M. This is my first fanfic in over 20 years, so I hope I've got the labels right. Yet another tale of happens between the fire and the time Raoul puts the music box on Christine's grave. Rated M (about as sexy as a Romance novel) for later chapters. Chapters are a bit long, but that's the way they're coming out. Comments and reviews welcome! Oh, first names for various characters (such as Mme. Giry) were created by me, since I couldn't find them anywhere. If you know them and the source, please let me know. Thanks!

Chapter One

Christine Daaé raced as fast as she could with Raoul close on her heels. While the fire raged in the front of the theater and up in the heights, it had not touched the stone encased area of the chapel and the escape route through the grated windows Meg had shown her as a child. They came out on the side of the opera house, in the alley leading back to the stables. Cinders fell from above, but there was no choking smoke. Raoul took hold of her wrist and pulled her towards the stables and away from the masses of people she knew would be in the front.

She tugged at his hold, but he tightened his grip. "This way," he insisted.

"But Meg, and Madame..." she protested.

"They'll be fine."

She followed as he half-dragged her around the building to the stables. The vast majority of the windows were too high up, so the great licks of flame spouting up the walls were no threat even as they lit the alleyway like daylight. The double doors were thrown open, but the only movement was the billows of smoke coming from inside. Several coaches were about, but there were no horses to be had at all. Raoul slapped the side of his carriage, muttered a curse half-under his breath.

"This way," he insisted, moving down the curving service drive. "We'll get a cab."

Christine hesitated, looking at the opera as if she could see through it to her friends. Raoul took her arm and she looked at him. For good or ill, her life at the opera was over and she could not go back. She had chosen Raoul and his life now.

Even knowing that, it was hard to turn her back on everything as it burned and smoked and follow him away from all she knew and loved.

Everything inside her felt numb as she walked. She was more aware of the sodden mass of skirts about her legs than where she went. Her thoughts became thicker than porridge, weighing down the whirl of her emotions. How he located and secured a taxi in the hullabaloo, she had no idea, but it seemed to take no time at all to her dazed recollection before he lifted her into a coach and climbed in across from her.

Raoul gave her a loving smile. Christine tried to find one to return, but it felt weak, even to her.

"Everything will be fine," he told her. "There's nothing to worry about now."

She nodded and turned to look out the window. The blaze of the fire lit up the entire street and warmed her face, even as they drove away from it.

As hard as she tried to believe there was nothing more to worry about, she couldn't. After all, she was the only one who worried about this plan to capture the Phantom—Erik—from the beginning. He created the opera, dictated the construction of the set, the choreography, every aspect of the production. Nothing they did could do anything but play into his hands. Hadn't he had warned them that a disaster beyond their imaginations would occur?

In seven years, she'd never known him to lie.

Why hadn't they listened to him? To her protests? Now everyone she knew and loved—Mme. Giry, Msr. Reyer, even Carlotta and Piangi—how could she not worry about their safety as the fire lit up the Parisian night and destroyed the only home she'd known without her father.

But her future lay with the man opposite her, not with her friends. Not with the opera. Not with the man beneath the opera.

She wiped away tears before they could fall.

She couldn't think about the lost expression on Erik's face as Raoul punted them through the waterways. She knew that feeling exactly. It was how she felt right that moment. Lost, overwhelmed, with nothing right left in the world to cling to.

Words she'd sung earlier in the evening came to mind, words Erik had written. Had he truly planned all these events and the song been a final warning even she'd ignored? The tune whirled around in her thoughts, and she sang them softly. "The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn. We've past the point of no return."

Raoul closed the shade over the window with a snap of the fabric, robbing her face of the fire's heated rage. His expression was tight and bordering on anger. She leaned into the corner of the coach to escape it. He tried to soften his expression, but his eyes remained hard. "No need to think about such things, darling. We're beyond all that."

"Beyond all that?" she repeated. They were beyond what drove them for the last several weeks, if not her last many years. They were beyond the destruction and loss lighting up the night sky. Beyond all the good friends she might never seen again, never know their fates? How could she get beyond everything that had ever mattered in her life by shutting a blind?

She blinked the tears away and sat back obediently. Seven years ago, her beloved father died and gave her into Madame Giry's care. She remembered too well how utterly lost and alone she'd felt as they went down to the train station. Always before, travel had been exciting. A new audience for Papa to mesmerize with his violin. Sometimes they visited old friends or went for a quiet summer at the seashore at Perros. That trip to Paris had been somber. No laughter. No music. Not even a smile from her new guardian.

Christine had been afraid to cry then, as she was now. One had to be strong before others, after all. Madame Giry had instilled that in her. Or at least tried to.

At this moment, Christine felt too hollow inside to try to be strong, yet too emotionally weak to bring up tears.

Raoul moved to her side of the coach and took her hand. She looked down at their hands. Her fingers no longer wore the ring that Raoul had given her, that Erik had slipped back on just an hour ago. There had almost been a moment between them there, a moment of communication and understanding. For a moment, she had a glimpse of the man behind the deformity.

Then Raoul arrived and everything slipped into violence again.

For all his rage and violence, Christine hoped Erik was free. The idea of him imprisoned, behind bars, scared her.

Raoul squeezed her hand and gave her another kindly smile when she looked at him. "I swear to you, everything is fine."

Her smile wavered again as the burn of tears made her turn her face away from his constant reassurance. _How can you swear that everything is fine? There is too much we can't know. Too much I may never know._

"I'm worried about Meg. And Mme. Giry. And—"

"You're a very kind-hearted girl, but I'm certain they are fine. I saw Meg with the gendarmes we passed. They won't let harm come to her."

"She was with them? I didn't see her. What was she doing with them?"

"Guiding them, I have no doubt. A very resourceful young woman, your friend Meg. You should be very proud of her."

Christine nodded, but her thoughts circled his words. If Meg lead the gendarmes, they would find Erik's hiding place. They might have captured him as he sat in his bedroom. Dragged him through the water as their prisoner. Or had he raged and they killed him on the spot? Or had he been beaten to death by the stage workers in revenge for Buquet's hanging?

She shivered uncontrollably.

Raoul slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest and reassured her yet again how perfect everything would be now that the horrors of the Phantom were at an end.

She gripped her hands together in her lap, curling her nails into her palms so she would not scream and scratch his eyes out for the meaningless recitation.

The cab slowed and turned. Raoul snapped the shade up and nodded. They were on a private street of fine townhouses with small, but finely tended lawns. This was the kind of neighborhood that her father would often go to play between orchestral seasons. They'd go in the less glamorous back entrance and she would sit in the kitchen, out of the way, while Papa played his violin to the enjoyment of the rich and well-to-do. It was, in fact, the first place she'd met Raoul, in the kitchen of his parents' seaside house in Perros. He had brought down a book to read in the good-smell of the kitchen and read to her. It had been the start of their friendship.

It wasn't until the countess's carriage arrived at the house some weeks later that she discovered Raoul was the count's son and not a servant boy.

The hired coach stopped before a house slightly larger than its neighbors. The curtains were drawn over the huge windows, so the only light came from the street lamp. After the brightness of the inferno, the street seemed so totally dark.

A man in livery appeared in the doorway, scurrying down to open the carriage door for them.

"Pay the man," Raoul instructed as he stepped out and held his hand out to her. "Come, darling, before we catch our deaths out here."

Christine took his hand and struggled to follow. Her sodden skirts clung to her legs, making her shiver and tripping her when she tried to climb out. Raoul caught her by the waist and lifted her to the sidewalk as if she weighed no more than a whisper. The night air felt so much chiller with the brightness of the opera so far away.

A man not much older than Raoul stood at the door to usher them in and closed the night out behind them. The foyer opened onto a large hall with a grand marble staircase . Christine looked around at the grandeur. The chandelier hung overhead, stately in its shadows, most of the candles blown out for the night. Lit, this space would be as opulent as any opera set, only real.

She tried to slide her hand from Raoul's grip, but he wouldn't let go. He pulled her across the foyer to the arched doorway on the far right side. "We'll wait in the parlor until a room is ready for Miss Daaé, Charbonneau."

"Your parents asked to be notified when you arrived home, sir."

He stopped so quickly, she ran into his side. "What was that?"

"The Count and Countess arrived shortly after you left for the theater, sir," Charbonneau explained. "They intended to have cold supper with you upon your return."

Raoul's frown marred his beautiful face. "I see Father's worn out from the latest bout of searching."

His voice almost dripped with venom. Christine looked at him. The only subject she'd ever heard that made him that cold before was the Phantom. Whatever could his father be searching for that would evoke such a response.

"I'll see to the lady's room, sir." Charbonneau gave a polite bow and headed down the hallway beyond the stairs.

Raoul stalked into the parlor, dragging her helplessly in his wake. All the fine brocaded upholstered furniture was lost in the darkness of his sudden mood. Christine looked down at herself, anywhere but at him. Her knees trembled and she wanted desperately to collapse against some soft surface but she dare not risk it. She couldn't imagine that the countess would not be greatly upset if she ruined the fine fabrics with her ruined, wet cloths.

"Raoul?"

He forced a smile onto his face, but it looked as painted as any backdrop.

She searched desperately for something to say now that she had his attention. "What is your father looking for?"

He took both her hands in his and gave her yet another smile that was supposed to be comforting and reassuring. At least the darkness didn't return to cloud his brow. "You never wondered why I always preferred to come to your little house in Perros to our own, did you? My father," he paused as he gazed at the arched doorway for a long moment. "My father is obsessed with something he always said was lost, despite reports it was destroyed. All these years, I thought he was insane, but now—"

He blinked and focused on her face. "I never liked being around him when he went hunting, so I always wanted out of the house. Anywhere was better than the midst of Father's obsession."

Voices echoed down from the stairs. Christine glanced toward the doorway then gripped his hands tighter. "I'm in no state to meet your parents. I don't want to."

"We've been engaged for weeks, darling. I know you've worried about it, but don't. Mamman adores me and I'm certain as soon as she sees how much I love you, she'll love you too. It will be fine."

"That's—" Her words drifted off in confusion. How could he present her to his parents when she looked like a drowned kitten in a wedding dress? It was social suicide, yet it was too late.

She remembered all too well the one and only time she'd met the countess as a child. She'd been cleaning vegetables on the stoop when the grand carriage arrived at their small house in Perros. The footman approached, all stiff and formal, and questioned her about Raoul's presence and activities. All the time she talked with the servant, she was aware of the woman watching her from inside the carriage, the hard eyes glaring at her as if she were a criminal of the worst sort. It reminded her of how dragons would peer out of caves in stories.

Looking at the woman who swept into the room, Christine wasn't certain her childish memory wasn't entirely wrong.

The Countess deChangy was a tall woman who epitomized poise and elegance, even clothed in the house clothes, obviously not expecting to be entertaining that evening. Some people just had a noble air about them, and Isabella deChangy was definitely one of them. There was no doubt in Christine's mind where Raoul got his stunning good looks. Christine wished she could disappear into one of Erik's trap doors under the silent weight of the countess' chic disapproval.

His lordship stepped into the room. His demeanor was more welcoming, a small smile gracing his rugged features and even lighted his stunning blue eyes. He looked oddly familiar, but she couldn't place where she might have seen him before.

"Whatever is the meaning of this, Raoul?" the Countess asked. "By all appearances, one might guess you were just married in Seine rather than attended the opera this evening."

"Mamman, Pappa," Raoul said, "may I present my fiancée, Miss Christine Daaé."

"Thank God, still a fiancée," his mother breathed. "Your clothes are a total disgrace, _mon cher_, and stink of—"

Raoul dismisses his mother's fashion concerns by taking Christine's hand. "Miss Daaé was kidnapped in the midst of the performance tonight, Mamman." The countess straightened at the interruption, openly insulted by her son's rudeness. "I had to rescue her."

"Perhaps the young lady would like to rest after her ordeal," the count suggested pleasantly. He stepped forward and took her hand from Raoul's possession grasp. "Would you like that, Miss Daaé?"

Christine found an honest smile in appreciate for his consideration. The gesture seemed so comforting, but she wasn't certain why. "Merci, Monsieur le Count. I appreciate your graciousness."

"I've ordered a room prepared for her," Raoul snapped, obviously irritated

"Excellent. My dear, perhaps you will see to our young guest's comfort while I discuss matters with your son." The count gave his wife's outraged raised chin a patient smile and gestured for them to retire. Christine glanced at Raoul. He looked like he'd swallowed something sour and nasty. Still, she knew he would not consider arguing with his father.

Raoul gave her a kiss, diverting it to the polite corner of her mouth at a wordless protest from his mother. "I'll see you in the morning, darling. Don't worry. Everything is fine."

The oft-repeated reassurance buzzed in her ears like the whispers of the backstage crew during a performance. The silent countess stood at the foot of the stairs, rigid disdain oozing from her every pour. Christine nervously gathered the wet skirts up so they wouldn't sweep the floor or leave anymore of a mess than they already had. Without a word, they ascended the stairs to the second floor. A blurry-eyed maid waited at the top.

"Danielle will see to your needs," the countess said briskly as she swept down the hallway.

The maid gave her a smile and a tired curtsy. "This way, Miss."

The room was still chill when they entered, with two lamps lit. The room felt rosy and warm despite the temperature. Christine said nothing as she allowed Danielle to unfasten the dress she'd hastily gotten herself into. The woman's confident fingers reassured her far more than all of Raoul's repeated platitudes. Christine took in a deep breath when she was free of the gown's restrictive stays and rubbed her arms against the rise of goosebumps.

The gown given to her to wear for the night smelled slightly of herbs and storage, but she was glad for its warmth and softness. Danielle removed the frog from beneath the blankets, set it aside, blew out one of the lamps, then curtsied before leaving the room.

For a moment, Christine stood in the silence, uncertain of what to do. Such silence was a luxury unknown to her except for the sanctuary of the chapel as her arrival at the opera house.

She shivered suddenly and scrambled into bed, pulling the covers tight against her.

In the stillness of the night, she could finally settle back and think about all that had happened so very quickly. The Phantom's sudden appearance on stage. Her thrill at recognizing him. The regret that overtook the moment after she'd revealed his face to the world. The overwhelming fear when Raoul hung from the gate, struggling for breath. The panic racing through her mind when Erik demanded she make a decision.

A decision that, in the end, had meant nothing.

Erik had dismissed her choice to stay with him as if she'd never made it. Never kissed him.

Before that, Raoul had dismissed her decision not to do _Don Juan, Triumphant!_ and she found herself on stage despite all forebodings.

In fact, since her father died, had any of her decisions mattered? She'd wanted to be one of the singers, but Mme. Giry had insisted she become a dancer. She'd wanted the bed next to Meg's, but she stayed at the other end of the dormitory. She'd left with her Angel only to be returned in disgrace.

The only decision she'd made that seemed to have held was when she stopped the swordfight in the cemetery, but now she wondered if Raoul didn't merely postpone when he killed Erik.

If she had not steadfastly lit a candle to remember her Papa, she would never had learned to sing at all. And even that was not her decision. Her Angel of Music just began instructing her in the quiet aloneness of the chapel.

She closed her eyes, remembering the silken feel of his voice wrapping around her in the darkness. Despite all the turmoil of the evening, it still brought her comfort as she drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the great reviews--they made my week. :) I hope this lives up to expectations. I'm having great fun with it. And thanks for the reference to Mme. Giry's name. It figures the one book I couldn't wade through would have it. LOL! As for the titles, since they used the English ones in the movie (see the spelling on Christine's gravestone in the epilogue), that's what I went with.

Chapter Two

The burning building filled the night sky with long tongues of flame. Smoke rose above that, cloaking the pureness of the stars and the moon with its black deceit. 

Mme. Antoinette Giry stood in the courtyard of the restaurant on the far side of the entrance, watching it. Beneath her hand, Msr. Reyer shifted, trying not to cough and wrack his slim body in spasms. She squeezed his shoulder, giving him what little moral fortitude she had to offer, but her eyes did not leave the inferno.

Somewhere in its bowels, her daughter had gone with others to capture the fiendish Phantom. Bravely gone, but gone nonetheless. Despite all attempts to dislodge her and take her off to someplace safer, Antoinette refused to go until there was some word of Meg's fate.

Msr. Reyer took hold of her hand, drawing her attention away for the first time. Her eyes burned even though they no longer looked at the fire. She followed his point. The bulk on the litter could only belong to Piangi. Carlotta followed, but her stance was no longer a woman weeping over her dead lover, but a woman with hope. Perhaps Erik had not killed him after all, but only stilled him for the time he would need to sweep Christine away.

She turned her gaze back to the front of the opera house. Yesterday, she'd prayed for such a miracle. Tonight, she found it impossible to believe.

Figures moved from around the side of the building, dark and tiny against the immense light of the fire. Her eyes watered as she squinted to see them, but quickly recognized some of the stage hands who'd gone down with the gendarmes to the catacombs below. She stepped around her long-time friend and moved towards them. Her steps faltered, fearing the worst when she couldn't see the young spry figure of her daughter among them. How much more would this night cost her?

In answer to her silent prayer, Meg stepped out from the shadow of one of the men and hurried to her. Professional reserve be damned, she hugged her daughter and stroked the soot-covered blonde hair.

Meg held her for a moment then stepped back, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Dear God in Heaven," Mme. Giry whispered, "what now?"

"We found his lair," Meg explained, "but there was no one there. Christine's costume was there, but there was no sign of the Viscount. We found the Phantom's escape route, and followed him—"

"You fools."

"But he was gone. His lift had smashed at the bottom and we cannot trace him. Mama—" She paused, looking over her shoulder as one of the gendarmes stopped nearby. "Mama, I know he had to have confided in you. Please, he must have Christine, I'm sure of it. We have to rescue her. Tell us where he's taken her. Please."

Mme. Giry looked beyond her daughter's anxious face, back at the dying opera house.

She'd grown up within its walls, met her husband and fell in love there. Her small office held every treasure of her career as a dancer, the mementoes of joys of her marriage, her child's youth. It was more than her career, her home, it had held her life. Been her life.

There, she'd hidden a deformed boy and protected him against the cruel world. She'd given so very much to his service, little things she'd thought nothing of giving. She'd loved him as the family she'd never had in her childhood. She'd been loyal to him above even her own career. Sometimes her own family.

And this was how he repaid all her years of love and loyalty, by carelessly destroying everything else in her world for his own gains.

Besides a sense of charity, had he ever given anything back to her outside of the most cursory "mercis"? Hadn't he always demanded more of her with every passing year?

Finally, she closed her eyes against tears.

Her voice broke slightly as she recited the address for the flat she'd rented for him two days before.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

The night had always been Erik's realm. He moved through the darkened streets. He didn't need light, he held the map of every place he'd ever been firmly in his mind, from the catacombs and mazes beneath Paris to its rat's nest of streets above. At night, no one peered closely, no one questioned, everyone scurried away about their own business. At night, he was free.

Yet, tonight was different from all other nights. Tonight, there was a lightness to his step he couldn't remember ever before.

Tonight, he had done something wonderful.

He hadn't realized it at first. Pushing Christine away had been the most difficult thing he'd never conceived, but totally the right thing to do.

As he smashed through the mirror, he thought he'd done it to make his own departure faster, but that was a lie. He'd calculated having her with him from the start. It's what he had wanted, had worked toward for weeks. Months.

As he paused in the tunnel to change his clothes, his memory drifted over his choices of the evening. He'd dropped from above intending to kill Piangi. He'd had the rope tight around the man's neck, his unconscious body pulling on the hold, begging for the final twist that would end his pitiful existence. At the time, Erik convinced himself that he didn't have time for the final twist and let him down. Now, he knew that to be a lie as well.

Something had been changing inside him since Christine spared his life at her father's tomb. He realized that now. He'd declared war on them, but it had turned into a war within himself. Christine's Light against his lifetime of Darkness.

Yet, tonight, the Light had begun to claim more of his soul. Not killing Piangi for all his sins against Music had only been a small part of it.

Erik turned a corner and caught a glimpse of the raging inferno in the distance. Pausing, he looked at it, almost amazed that it had taken hold so violently and so swiftly.

For some time, the Opera Populaire had been his realm, his sanctuary beyond all evils of the world. He'd always believed he'd held it well, done the best for it and all those within its walls. When this evening began, the only thought in his mind was to destroy it if he was defied in his desires. The accursed managers had attempted to steal it from him and didn't believe he could take it from them so easily. It was his, after all, and always had been.

And he'd succeeded in destroying it brilliantly.

Yet the thrill of success had a bitter aftertaste he wasn't accustomed to. Yet another part of his changing, but not the whole.

His mind flashed to the moment he stood on the bridge with Christine, publicly declaring his love for her. Her betrayal had had brought back all the Darkness full force, all the rage and hurt he knew so well. There was no dawn again until that moment he had to make the final choice. To keep Christine by his side though she openly loved another, or release her to her love and continue on alone.

That was when he realized that keeping her would only destroy the sweetness in her he treasured, extinguishing the Light he craved forever.

He had freely given when he had nothing to gain and everything to lose. All he had to give her was the chance to be happy, to set her free, and he'd done it without qualms or second thoughts.

And he felt joyous despite the sacrifice. Light had gained a hold in his soul.

This was a power he didn't know. He knew the power of hate, the power of fear and of command, but never considered there could be a power in doing the right thing. There was true power in the Light he'd shunned for so very long.

He liked it.

He liked it a great deal.

It sang through his veins like the finest aria, pure and clear and perfect.

Yet, like a fine soprano's voice, there was a razor's edge to it. One falseness and it was the screeching hell he'd just walked away from. One he never wished to return to.

Perhaps Piangi lived. Perhaps he hadn't trapped the managers in their box and they'd escaped. It would be good if the theater could be rebuilt.

It would be good, but he knew he could not stay to see it.

He would leave for Vienna, as planned, but alone. Money, clothing, train tickets, everything he needed to start a new life sat in the apartment rented for him.

He turned away from his old life, surprised to feel a sadness at the departure. A short walk down the boulevard, up a flight of stairs, and he would be there.

His new life will begin in earnest in just a few more steps.

He diverted into an alleyway to approach the boarding house from the back, where the stairs to his room was. Long experience as the hunter and the hunted prickled the back of his neck. Erik paused, looking around, but could see nothing unusual. No shadows lurking where shadows should not be. His approach to the door became more cautious, but he did not stop. Stopping told the predator it had been recognized and gave away any advantage of surprise.

By the time his fingers touched the handle, he convinced himself that he was still too nervous after the evening's excitement. It was impossible for anyone to know where he'd gone. Dearest Antoinette Giry would never betray his confidence. Perhaps it was wise he'd given himself time to nap before going to the train station.

The stairs creaked as he climbed them. As he reached the landing, he saw the too-dark shadow before his door.

Behind him, the door opened and footsteps entered the narrow stairway.

Against all common sense and belief, someone waited for him.

"Halt or we'll shoot."

Erik studied the figure at the bottom of the stairs. A touch to the wall, a jump and he could plant his feet squarely in the man's chest and probably kill him. Then he would be free. Once out into the night, they would never find him. So very simple.

Yet, to do so would slide him back down the path to darkness, away from Christine's legacy into his life.

The gendarme stepped forward so the moonlight showed his youth, his fear and his determination.

Erik stopped and raised his hands.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

"So, please confirm what you did tonight," the Count deChangy said slowly. Raoul recognized the tone all too readily. His father had a lecture in store. The young viscount had no patience to sit quietly through such a tirade tonight like an obedient school boy. "You abandoned an entire theater full of people to their fate against catastrophe and ran after a single woman."

"The woman I love."

"You are the patron of that establishment. You are an officer and you are a nobleman. Your responsibilities are far more to than just one woman. Anyone who died in that conflagration is certainly on your head for your rash decision."

"Any deaths are the responsibility of the lunatic who caused it," Raoul retorted.

His father leveled a look at him that had quelled more than one strong man into submission before him. It was too familiar, opened too raw a wound this time. Raoul straightened and returned the gaze for the first time in his life.

A small, mocking, smile curled his father's lip. "All for a glorified chorus girl."

"Do not –" he caught himself before he completely lost his temper. "Maman was an actress, as I recall. You have no right to judge me, sir."

"I have every right to judge the worthiness of my son."

Without thinking about it, Raoul started to ignore the all-too common litany of his failures as a man and as a son. Why had he even thought that his father would note, or even value, his heroic efforts to save Christine this evening? His mother fussed about pittances like ruined clothing and his father chastised him for abandoning a theater filled with gendarmes who were perfectly capable of handling emergencies.

"Your brother would never have been that irresponsible."

Raoul's eyes flashed again, but he kept his gaze turned away. "Oh, you don't know how irresponsible he can be, Papa. Not at all."

"I know the boy he was. The man he should be is no different. Not a vain, self-centered egotist concerned for his own desires. How many people did your little plan put at risk tonight? All for what?"

"To bring down a madman, a terrorist plaguing that opera for years. Our investment, Papa, do remember."

"And you destroyed that investment."

"He destroyed it."

"Because of your idiocy."

"You don't know the half of what happened, Papa. Nor do I think you're willing to listen to anything close to reason, so I will bid you good night."

He gave his father a formal bow and left before any objections could be raised. Raoul knew the truth, too many truths. It was just a matter of time before he decided to reveal them, but it would be his choice and not done out of a fit of temper.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

The gendarmes pulled Erik from the building and manacled his hands before him. He watched them distractedly, his natural nobility cloaking him from any shame at the proceedings.

"Where is she?"

He blinked to focus on the pretty young face before him, framed in dirty sunlight hair. Another blink before he recognized Antoinette Giry's daughter, Meg. Meg, whom he remembered as a small child, playing with her toys as he spoke to her mother. Meg, the young dancer with so much promise, a true gem in the troupe. Pleasant memories he hadn't expected tugged a smile to his lips.

Yet, her expression was far from pleasant. Her dark eyes accused him of atrocities beyond expectation before he'd answered her question. The smile died instantly. He narrowed his eyes.

"Where is Christine?" Her voice quivered, more from rage than fear. "What have you done with her?"

It would be so easy to tell her the truth, to ease her concerns. Just say she'd left with her fiancé and all would be over. Erik realized that in the instant he knew he wouldn't say anything. His gaze reflected his disdain for her distrust in him, in her mother's obvious betrayal of his location.

Meg shivered under the steady gaze and backed away. Her eyes darted around, seeking anything else to look at but him. She was obviously convinced of the worst of him now.

The largest gendarme grabbed hold of his arm and dragged him out to the boulevard, pushing him into the small wagon waiting there. He took the steps easily and seated himself with some amount of dignity despite the attempt to shove him into place.

Through the small grated window, he could still see Meg Giry standing there, looking like a lost soul.

Destroying her hope should have brought him some pleasure. Erik wasn't certain what to do with the fact that it didn't bring as much as he expected.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Thanks again for the encouragement. This is my first fan fic since before there were Mary Sues and Slash, so it's very encouraging. And I really appreciate the V-8 moments when people remind me of silly mistakes like "M for Monsieur." Hope you continue to enjoy this little story.

Chapter Three

Christine rushed from the city, out into the quiet meadow. The Romans were about to attack, she knew, and Hannibal had sent her away with a touching song that reassured her of his undying devotion to her and his loyalty to Carthage. She was Elissa, singing the aria to her lover, knowing without knowing that he would die and go before the gods first.

The words poured from her, more honest and heart-wrenching than she'd ever sung it before. Tears streamed down her face. She could not stop singing nor crying.

She knew her city was dead behind her. Hannibal would be nothing more than a memory to carry with her.

_They're all dead. He's dead._

::Think of me. Think of me fondly, when we've said good-bye.::

_Good-bye. Good-bye. good-bye..._

Christine woke, her entire body stiffening under the weight of the thick blankets. Her heart pounded. She touched her cheeks, surprised to discover them dry.

This wasn't her bed in the dormitory. She could smell roses and bee's wax and felt the cool kiss of a breeze against her shoulder. While there was movement nearby and humming, it was only one person attempting to be quiet, not the hordes of other girls and women she was accustomed to.

::Think of those things we'll never do...::

Christine closed her eyes on the lyrics haunting her thoughts as well as her dreams. The blaze of the opera fire came to mind. There was much she would never do now, never do again.

Her life was with Raoul now. She had to remember that. Just as her childhood ended when her Papa died, her youth was over now. She could not go back.

She rolled onto her back, blinking her eyes against the morning sun.

The room around her was all roses. She remembered the vague sense of it as she entered, but now in the full sunlight, she could see how it enshrined the blossom.

The walls were covered in a soft velvet wallpaper of textured roses rising to the ceilings. The tables were covered in delicate lace doilies, yet tiny roses were obvious along the edges. The fabric of the chair and lounge were the dark green of leaves. The carpet she stepped onto as she got up also had roses of all hues intertwining around it. The roses she smelled sat in a large cut crystal vase in front of the open window, their bright yellow color brilliant against the landscape outside.

For an odd reason, she wished they were red, and the vase could be black.

She shook off the thought, knowing that wasn't possible anymore. Erik had rejected her in the same moments she'd chosen him.

::Don't think about the things which might have been...::

"Good morning, Miss." The maid, Danielle, smiled at her. "Are you up for the day, then?"

"Yes, I think I am." She gave the woman a smile in return, pleased to feel it was more honest that anything she'd felt last night.

::Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind...::

Danielle escorted her to the water closet. As Christine took care of her morning needs and washed afterward, it occurred to her that she didn't have anything to wear. She'd arrived in the wedding dress, which had been taken away to be cleaned or burned. She was certain none of her own clothes could have survived the blaze, and even if they had, the opera house was on the other side of Paris. She couldn't spend the day in a nightgown.

When she returned, she found her concerns completely unfounded. Danielle had tied back the curtains of the bed and laid out two gowns. "I can nip and tuck a bit, Miss, but if there's anything seriously needed, I'll have to send for the seamstress."

Christine bit back the question of where they came from, deciding it was probably better if she didn't know. The green one needed a great deal of "nip and tucking" but the burgundy one fit quite snugly.

"Very becoming, Miss."

"Thank you."

"May I be so bold as to ask a question, Miss?"

She looked at the woman's reflection in the mirror. "Whyever couldn't you?"

Danielle ducked her head for a moment. "Who is Erik, Miss?"

In spite of herself, Christine caught her breath. "What do you mean?"

"You were calling his name while you were sleeping, Miss. Once, it was a scream. Near scared me half to death."

Flashes of her dream came back to her, the echoing knowledge that he was dead as she was safe. Her heart pounded against her chest at the horrible thought. No, that was just a dream. Erik couldn't possibly be dead. He had to have escaped the fire, the gendarmes.

"Miss?"

"He's a friend, from the opera," she stammered. The almost lie didn't quell any of the dread looming over her thoughts.

"I hope he survived that terrible fire, Miss."

"So do I."

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Christine descended the stairway, still amazed at her surroundings. After the modest accommodations of her childhood and the stark necessities of the dormitories, this was casual opulence beyond belief. To think this is what Raoul considered normal. She ran her hand along the finely carved banister rail, knowing she'd never touched anything so fine before.

Danielle had given her directions to the morning room, where the family gathered for breakfast. Two maids and a manservant stepped aside to allow her to pass. It was a very heady feeling, not unlike the bliss of having sung Elissa that one spectacular night. That night, however, was part of her new past.

The count burst from a doorway, nearly barreling into her. "So sorry, my dear. Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you, sir. Is something wrong?"

"Just an urgent matter that I must attend to. Enjoy your morning, my dear."

Christine looked after him as he hurried down the hallway, calling for someone to get his carriage. There was a vibrancy about him that she hadn't noticed last night. But, she admitted to herself, she was in no state to notice much at all last night.

Raoul sat next to the head of the table, his breakfast china pushed aside as he read the morning newspaper. A server held the chair opposite him for her and presented her with a napkin. She accepted it absently, noting that the count had left his breakfast nearly untouched at the head of the table. "What upset your father, or shouldn't I ask?"

"I've no idea." Raoul folded the paper and offered it to her. "There's no guessing what's gotten into his head anymore."

She took the newspaper. The banner on the front page proclaimed the tragic burning of the Opera Populaire with a rather graphic sketch of the building mid-blaze. Christine studied the tiny black figures depicted around the building, trying to guess their identities with no success. She moved the paper to one side as the server set a plate before her and managed to give him a grateful smile before reading the accompanying article. "No one died. Thank God."

"Small miracle, considering," Raoul agreed. "But they caught your Phantom."

"What?" She glanced through the long columns of text until she found the article about the arrest of the ghoul who'd crashed the chandelier, kidnapped the prima donna. He was held on several charges and would not mention the fate of his young victim. She was feared dead.

"I'm certainly not dead. He didn't harm me at all."

"At least his rampage is at an end. He can harm no one else." Raoul sat back as the servant refilled his coffee. "It's high time he pay for his crimes, don't you think? Would you like to attend his trial?"

Christine gulped at the unexpected question. Though she found she couldn't admit it, she wanted to see Erik again. If she went, it would be to lend him support, not wait in anticipation for the sentence. She took care in stirring sugar into her coffee. "Do you think there will be a trial?"

"Come now, my dear. He destroyed the opera, put hundreds of people out of their home, out of their job. He killed --"

"No one," she interrupted. "Joseph Buquet's death was registered as a horrible accident. Signore Piangi--no one died last night. He's guilty of no murder."

"Extortion," Raoul continued. "Twenty thousand francs a month is no small sum. And kidnapping."

She shook her head firmly. "I went with him willingly."

"He dropped you through a trap door in stage. You cannot tell me that you agreed to that. You had to be terrified."

Christine sipped the strong, unfamiliar, brew and wrinkled her nose at the question. She hadn't known what manner of escape the Phantom would have at hand, but she'd known before she'd taken the stage that night that it was inevitable that she'd leave with him before it was over. She'd told Raoul as much, down in the chapel that afternoon. She'd known, and she'd gone. She was just glad that Raoul didn't press her for reasons she didn't know.

"I wasn't terrified," she admitted quietly. "Not of leaving with him. Only of the prospect of never coming back. Of never seeing any of my friends again."

Raoul took her hand from across the table. "I've sent queries as to where everyone has been housed. You can send notes, or we can visit. Perhaps we should take the Girys to lunch, perhaps order some new clothes for them?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

They shared a comforting smile and Raoul picked up his coffee cup. "I will, however, enjoy the trial."

"Perhaps I should go. I might be one of the few people there who could speak on his behalf."

"Why would you want to speak on his behalf? He's a monster. You told me so yourself. I saw your face when I first arrived. A cage is his natural habitat."

Christine thought back on that moment. For a split second, she knew she and Erik had reached a point of understanding, of rare communication between to people. She had touched him, and he her, on a very intimate level, and then Raoul splashed up to the gate. The betrayal, the anger, the surprise at the interruption had been clear on her face, she realized now. And Raoul thought it had all be directed at Erik and not himself.

She picked up her silverware and cut what was on her plate into tiny pieces then set them down with a clink against the china.

"When I first arrived at the opera, I was seven years old. I was alone. Mme. Giry does not show affection easily, not even to Meg. And Meg, she is a dear friend, a sister to me, but she couldn't comfort me in my loneliness. I had no one to hold me."

He reached across the table and attempted to cover her hand with his. She pulled hers away. "His voice held me, Raoul. Hour after hour, in the chapel, in my bed, his voice held me and comforted me. He spent time with me, something no one else could bother to do." Christine swallowed hard against the tears threatening to choke her speech. "He alone listened to my dreams of singing, of becoming a prima donna. He alone took my desire seriously and worked with me, hour after long hour, training me to do what you've heard. Only him."

"I'm not arguing your voice is exquisite, darling."

"And I had to betray him." Her voice broke on that statement. Raoul looked sympathetic but not understanding. She drew a shaky breath, but couldn't take her eyes off him. "For you, I betrayed one of my closest friends. I know I had to. And I understand you feel that justice can be served now. But I can't care about justice, not for him. I can't be happy that he's imprisoned. I can't be happy that he's going to stand for public ridicule because of what I did. Because of what we did. I care deeply for him. Just thinking about what is bound to happen makes me feel dirty."

"He never wanted to be your friend, Christine." Raoul tried to soothe her with his voice, as he had so many times before. "Not your father. Not a mentor. He wanted to be your lover. I think that's what making you feel dirty."

"I know what he wanted. A man doesn't create a beautiful wedding gown for a mere pupil."

"Did he give you a choice about the gown? Did he ever give you a choice about anything? Darling, think about it. He is a monster. He's locked away and will get what he deserves. You've got to be happy for that."

"Don't tell me how I've got to feel."

Honest hurt and surprise washed over his beautiful face. Christine felt tears burning her eyes. "Honestly, Christine, do I tell you how to feel? How can anyone do that? You're just overwrought still. Didn't you sleep well?"

"I slept very well, thank you."

"Good." He came around the table and leaned over her to jug her. She held him, relishing the solid feel of his arms around her. "I love you. I know you love me. As long as we have each other, that's all we need."

She smiled at him and took his hand. "I know that." This man was all she had in her life now. Hadn't she realized that last night in the carriage? Perhaps he was right, she was just overwrought from everything that had happened.

"Now," Raoul continued as he straightened. "Why don't you finish your breakfast. I'll go see if there's any word on your friends. We can spend the day doing anything you want. Anything at all."

Christine nodded and turned her attention on the mangled food on her plate. He gathered the paper and left, calling for someone as the door closed. Her appetite was gone even as she dutifully picked up her utensils to eat.

Anything she wanted at all? What she wanted was time and space to think, to consider what had happened, what was happening and what she truly wanted. Or, that was what she'd craved last night and thought she'd wanted this morning. Now, it was comfortable in so many ways to simply relax and not worry. To embrace the fact that Raoul loved her so very much and cared about her friends too.

He did love her. She knew that. He was her world now. It was a good world. And he was right, there was nothing terrifying here, nothing to truly threaten her.

Everything was fine. Raoul had been right. Everything would be fine.

Oddly enough, Christine found herself wanting to believe it.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Erik hated being on display.

Throughout the night and well into the morning, his gaolers paraded people to his cell to look at the deformed monster who'd burned down the Opera Populaire. Whoever slipped them a coin.

Nightmares of his boyhood, of the last time he'd been kept in a cage for display drove all thought of sleep. Dark rage sparked deep in his soul at the mistreatment, at the sheer outrageousness of the situation. This time, however, he found it easy to curb the desire to strangle his gaolers. Unlike before, he had chosen the path to this place instead of being sold to it. He would not lose himself to the animal within, regardless of the indignities.

Each time he heard the keys rattle against the lock at the stairs, he stood and faced the grill covering his cell and waited for the lanterns to appear.

They expected to see the darkness. It gave Erik perverse pleasure to greet them as if this was the parlor of his elegant home rather than a squalid cell more at home to rats and lice than people. Even when the light was beaconed at his face, displaying his gargoyle side to their sight, he managed to keep his composure. The monster was the captive here, not himself.

Yet the weariness of not sleeping wore at his resolve to continue clinging to the light, to remember the man he should have become had his life been lived differently. It would be so much easier to reach through the bars and snap the neck of one of the gawkers who insisted on staring, on asking personal questions as if they had every right and he had none. To remind them who had the real power here.

Sleep teased his eyelids when the next clanking of the heavy keys drove it off. Erik sighed and rose to his feet yet again. Weariness pulled at his bones and the darkness roared for attention. His resolve frayed slight as he heard all-too-familiar voices whispering in the blackness of the gaol before the lanterns reached his cell.

"There he is, monsieurs," the gaoler announced. "Just as promised."

The managers of the now defunct Opera Populaire stood on the other side of the gate, Firmin closer than the more timid André. The man's white hair stood out, even in the dim light of the lantern, marking his fear of the Phantom even now.

"Not so proud now, are we?" Firmin taunted.

A small smile curled the edges of Erik's lips. "It seems 'we' are quite proud indeed, monsieur. One who ignores warnings always gets what they deserve."

"And you'll certainly get what you deserve. Burning down the theater."

"Crashing the chandelier!" André squeaked.

Firmin nodded, albeit distractedly. "You will pay dearly for your impudence, sir. I'm only sorry you can't be charged with murder and hang like you truly deserve."

"And have you paid for your impudence, sir?" Erik retorted. "Bad management has its costs as well. Had you heeded all warnings, nothing at all dire would have befallen anyone."

Firmin poked his cane between the bars, jabbing him firmly in the ribs. Before Erik thought, he had hold of the man's wrist and pulled his arm and the cane fully into the iron grid work. His face and shoulder hit with a satisfying crash. Without releasing the wrist, Erik pulled the cane away and held it, ready to defend himself further. His lips drew back in a growl, clearly exposing his teeth. The mass on his face pulsed with his heartbeat.

André staggered out of the light with a whimpering cry. Firmin's eyes were as wild as a frightened horse, but he said nothing. Both their attention was on the cane he held in his other hand. A glance answered that question: the cane was merely a polite sheath for a sword.

Perhaps the fool did have a reason to fear.

The gaoler was pale in the ruddy-gold of the lantern he held. He had a baton in the other hand, but the ill-advised use of that was all too clear to everyone there.

Erik felt some of the Darkness peek out as he settled his gaze on the man. The gaoler backed off, visibly shaken by the mere glance.

It was clear they all thought he could kill Firmin, perhaps all three of them, if he wished. For a thrilling moment, Erik thought he could too. He settled his gaze on the manager who knew more about business than opera. Contempt flowed through Erik's veins as he studied the man who'd been one of his biggest problems in all his years. So easy. So simple. A flick of his fingers to release the hidden sword, a twist of his wrist and blood would spill.

But swords was not his _modus operandi_. He disliked the smell of blood and the lengthy deaths such wounds caused. There were so very few who deserved to die in prolonged agony.

The sweetness Christine brought into his life glimmered beyond the Darkness of his life. Without a word, he released Firmin's arm and allowed the man to scuttle back to the relative safety of his companion. Erik dropped his gaze to the weapon he held, now feeling so foreign and weighty to his touch though he'd welded it often enough over the last few months.

"Give it back," the gaoler demanded. His voice shook too badly for there to be any weight to the demand.

Erik popped the blade free of the cane and examined it. A thin, badly crafted piece, good only for a show of bravado that he had no doubt Firmin would fail at. The men on the other side of the grate gasped, stepping back further. Erik sheathed it again and slid it, hilt first, through the bars. "Come now, monsieur," he said, making his voice as rich as velvet and as unthreatening as a doting parent. "Didn't your mother ever teach you it was impolite to point?"

The gaoler was the first to move to snatch the cane from his grasp before the three made a hasty retreat. Erik leaned against the grate for the first time since his imprisonment, watching the light bob up the stairs until the great door closed it off.

Apparently, the Light had shone on him and no one had died in the chaos, not even Piangi. Any charges against him would be light in comparison. Some years of service than he would be a freeman once again. His life would not be lost in prison after all. After the hell of the circus, Erik knew he would survive prison.

Christine had saved him in more than he'd imagined.

The very idea left him breathless.

The door opened again, this time accompanied by excited banter between two women. "Can you really believe that, Yvette? A real live monster, right here in Paris."

Erik frowned at the pronouncement even as Yvette laughed heartily. "You mean worse than them's what in Parliament?" They both chortled drunkenly as they staggered after the gaoler. A different gaoler than before, he noted. One armed with a pistol this time. "Stand away!"

"Aye, stand away so we can see you," one of the women said.

The stability of the grate against his shoulder felt comforting, but a gentleman did not lean when a lady was present. It was obvious that these women were whores, but so were most titled ladies. Erik straightened and stepped obligingly into the light of the lantern.

The women stared at them unabashedly, without any of the social tittering and pretending that they weren't which had been so common with most of his 'visitors' He found the change oddly refreshing.

"Damn, Maude," Yvette announced as she pressed her face against the grid hard enough to leave lines impressed into her cheek. "Don't he look like your old man?"

Maude pressed hers just as close, grabbing the lantern unceremoniously away from the gaoler to light his face better. "Nah, he's prettier than my old man."

"Yeah, I've done uglier than him." They cackled laughter again. Yvette pulled her friend away and leaned against the grate, reaching through the bars for him. Erik held his ground, just out of her reach, but longed to retreat to the back wall of the cell to be certain. "C'mon, handsome. I'll give you a good tumble. No charge, love. Whatcha say?"

"Aw, now I wanted to do him first," Maude complained, pulling at Yvette's shoulder. "Tell her you want me, gorgeous."

"Enough," the gaoler announced. "Not giving it to the likes of him without sharing a little more with the likes of me, you're not. Off with you. You got your sou's worth."

They complained, but he peeled them off the bars and herded them back out the door.

Blissful darkness surrounded him once more.

In spite of his resolve not to let down his guard, dealing with blatant female adoration, however drunken and strange it was, drained his desire to continue the charade.

Darkness was so much easier to live than Light.

He lowered himself to the excuse of a cot the cell contained, bracing his shoulders against the grime-covered walls in case the sagging form collapsed beneath him. Weariness of the emotional turmoil, the strains of the performance, the flight, the confrontation and escape all hammered against his body suddenly.

Sleep dragged at his thoughts until he heard the eternal clank of keys again. Muttering a profound curse under his breath, he pushed himself to his feet. Sleeping against the stone had put an ache into his shoulders and neck that he did not have time to flex out before the light appeared before his cell. This could not last forever. Curiosity had to wane before the end of the day.

He blinked against the brightness, having to raise his hand to shield his eyes for the first time.

A voice he hadn't heard for the majority of his life spoke from beyond the lantern, a voice he'd dreamt of hearing again in his most private dreams, a voice he'd never thought to hear speak in his presence again.

"You have the wrong man, sir," the Count deChangy announced. "This is my son."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**This story evolved solely from the epitaph on Christine's tombstone at the end of the movie: Countess. In order for that to be true, she would have had to marry the Count deChangy, not the viscount, which was Raoul's title. The auctioneer in the prologue, could not afford to get such a title wrong. So Raoul began and ended the story as the viscount. Since we know his father, the count, was still alive ("My parents and I are honored to support all the arts."). Personally, I think the idea that Christine marrying Raoul's father is rather squicky, so that epitaph begged the question of who was the count after Raoul's father? That was the man Christine had to have married and had children with, who carved roses upon her tombstone, and that's why I decided to write this story.

So have no fear, gentle readers. This is, indeed, an EC story.

As for how Christine knows Erik's name from the movie, I mentally insert it in between the time he drags her out of the boat after escaping the chandelier drop and the time she comes down from his bedroom wearing the wedding dress. I can so easily see an exchange when he shoves the dress into her hands of "But I don't even know your name!" "Erik. My name is Erik." or something like that happening.

In this chapter, I do know that Nile crocodiles do not eat their young, however since the story takes place in 1871 (when they didn't realize that) and since I like the mental picture the phrase makes for the character involved, I decided to run with it anyway. My apologies to any croc lovers out there.

**Chapter Four**

Paris in the daylight was a rare sight. Erik sat back against the leather seat of the count's carriage, letting the images beyond the window flow past him without comment. The world appeared completely different, so alien and austere. So utterly unlike what he was accustomed to. At one time, he had moved in the daylight. Now it was time to do so again.

The last time he'd passed through these streets, his state had not been much better than it was now.

The circus he'd been sold to as a boy was intolerable. When he protested he was the heir to a count, a viscount in his own right, they beat him for being a liar. When he protested his abuse to the paying customers, they starved him. He learned quickly, fell silent, watching and studying them. The beatings lessened, but the only shows of kindness came from his tormentor's pet monkey, Napoleon. It, at least, would play with him more often than it would bite him.

It had been a vicious two years in that cage. But as he remained quiet, their practices relaxed. Only one man came to beat him back and pull off the hood for the customers instead of three. He was left alone for hours, giving him time to study the lock and to exercise and build his strength for the day he would need it. The haggard old fortune teller once gave him the stuffed toy monkey. He managed to hide the few tiny possessions he could gather, all the coins they'd missed. His fortune, his means to go home after he escaped.

Erik never doubted that he would make the opportunity to escape.

Then the circus arrived in Paris. It had been the chance he'd been waiting for. His parents kept a townhouse here. Erik remembered it, he's stayed there. He knew he could find it. So he strangled the bastard who enjoyed beating him for no reason and discovered the witness to his escape. But Antoinette Giry was a kind soul and hid him away when few others would.

When she tucked him amongst the forgotten props, she'd insisted that he couldn't leave, that the gendarmes would hang him for the murder.

"But my family is here," he'd insisted.

"No one can help you against murder."

"Papa can help against anything."

Antoinette had looked unconvinced and told him in a strong mother voice to stay there and be safe.

It was a question that had plagued him for several days. Was his father powerless against a murder charge? Finally, he decided he had to go and find out for himself, so he sneaked out of the building the same grate he'd entered. He'd taken one of the old costumes for clothing, a hooded cloak shielding his face from casual view. It had been a long walk, something he was unaccustomed to after his captivity. His feet throbbed and his shins felt twisted into tight knots by the time he reached the fine house.

As a son of the family, he had thought nothing of walking up to the front door and banging the heavy bronze knocker to announce his presence.

His heart pounded in his chest. Two years of degradation and humiliation were over. He was home and the world could return to normal. He would have his father and his studies and his toys again. Tears burned his eyes as he stared at the door and willed it to disappear and allow him entrance.

The heavy door swung open and an elderly man in the dark green livery of the deChangy family stood there, blocking the way. After a moment, the doorman sniffed and made a face and looked down as if a pile of manure had landed on his shoe.

"I am Erik deChangy," Erik announced. "Where are my parents?"

The servant merely planted his very polished shoe in the middle of Erik's chest and kicked him away from the door before closing it.

Erik closed his eyes against the remembered ache in his heart that had nothing to do with physical act. His fingers curled tight, wondering if that man were still alive today and if they'd meet upon reaching the townhouse. He doubted it, but the thought of the servant's expression brought a chilling smile to his face.

"I'm so very glad to have you home again, Erik."

The dream of hearing those words had died along with the pain from kick, so many years ago. Erik looked at his father evenly, not hiding the horrid side of his face from view. Marcel deChangy sat opposite him, watching him as intently as a novice musician watched his first conductor. The constant weight strained at Erik's ability to be civil, his weary nerves stretched thin from exhaustion.

"How is Mother?" Erik asked, ignoring the platitude.

"Quite well. She hasn't been the same since you disappeared. And Raoul --"

"I've seen my brother recently." _Nearly killed him as well._ The thought flickered a Dark smile over his lips.

The count frowned deeply. "He never mentioned it."

The thought of getting his pampered brother in trouble amused him for a moment, but Erik could feel the Dark swelling up inside him again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The temptation was strong, and his ability to resist it so new.

"When?" the count demanded.

It would be such a small bit of Light to assure his father that he'd seen Raoul, but Raoul had not seen him, but it would also be a lie. It had been obvious to Erik that Raoul had some suspicions about his identity at the graveyard. But he'd seen the full spark of recognition in his younger brother's eyes when Christine ripped off his mask and wig on stage. Raoul may have barely been walking when they'd last met as children, but Erik knew how unforgettable his face was. Seeing the crests stolen from his parents' carriages adoring the front rise of his music room was merely extra confirmation, Erik had no doubt.

"Erik," his father pressed. "When did you see Raoul?"

He took a deep breath, but did not raise his head or look at the man. "It's of no consequence, sir. None whatsoever."

XXX xxx xxx XXX

"It is so good to see you again, Christine." Mme. Giry pressed her cheek against hers and beamed at her. Christine felt so much better since finding them in a small hotel. Raoul had stood back, except for paying for lunch and a few new dresses for each of them. He'd been the perfect host and friend. She loved him dearly for his consideration.

But it was also time to go and Christine found it hard to part from the Girys. Even though this place was no more home than the deChangy townhouse, these two friends made it the only home she could have right now. She clasped Meg's hands after hugging her one more time.

"I'm so glad he didn't hurt you," Meg said, tears darkening her eyes. "I was so frightened last night when I saw him."

"Him? You saw the Phantom last night? When? Where?" Meg glanced at her mother. Raoul stepped closer to Christine, drawn by the excited tone of her voice. "Meg, what happened?"

"I was with the gendarmes," her best friend admitted slowly. Meg tightened her grip on her hands. "Christine, we couldn't find you. I was so frightened. When I demanded he tell me what had happened to you, he --" She swallowed hard and glanced away. The scare she'd had reflected plainly on her fair face. "I thought he'd killed you."

Christine pulled away. "He wouldn't do that. How could you think such a thing?"

"You have to understand, cherie," Mme. Giry spoke up. "We were frantic. And he was so desperate, to do what he did. Can you fault us for being worried?"

She sighed. "Of course not. I'm just surprised, since you know him better than I do. He simply could never hurt me."

Raoul scowled from beside her, but said nothing as she finished her farewells and promised to see them both again soon.

As Raoul drove the carriage across Paris, Christine sat quietly beside him, thinking on the changes in her life. She had no doubt that Raoul would insist on the wedding proceeding with the most haste Society would allow. The thought made her stomach tighten too tightly.

At least him driving the carriage made it difficult for him to do more than glance at her. At least neither of the Girys had asked when the wedding would be. At least she could stop thinking about engagment and marriage for this moment.

Raoul stopped before the townhouse, pulling up behind his father's coach with the Count deChangy's coat of arms emblazoned on the doors. He frowned as they had to wait for a servant to appear to take the reins from him. "What's my father's mood?" he asked the youth who finally appeared.

"Quite jubilant, sir. He's shouting to bring down the roof, I daresay."

Christine took Raoul's hand to descend, noting his frown. "What's wrong? Why is it bad your father's in a good mood?"

"It's not a good mood," he growled in return, striding towards the door held open by another servant. She had to lift her skirts and nearly run after him to keep up.

They stopped in the grand foyer to find servants bustling everywhere. Several maids hurried up or down the stairs. The clatter from the kitchen at the rear of the house was audible. Several menservants stood in the archway, looking apprehensive.

What struck Christine as completely odd was the fact there was no sound of voices, even amongst all the hustle and bustle.

Raoul headed toward the parlor, where the most people were gathered. Christine trailed after him, lost without his direction.

His parents were there. The countess sat in a chair, her face pale, a maid holding a tray with a bottle of smelling salts hovering nearby. The count stood, leaning on the mantel, lost in momentary thought.

If Christine had to guess, she'd think there'd been a death in the family, the room was so silent and somber. Why would the count be "jubliant" one moment and now so absolutely still? She didn't know.

The countess noticed them and reached out to her son. Raoul crossed and took his mother's trembling hand without a second thought. "What's happened?"

"Your brother's come home," the count said. His tone was conversational, but the words slammed against the servants' bustling and seemed to still it instantly.

"Brother?" Christine repeated, looking between the three of them.

Marcel deChangy straightened and stalked his son. "He said you'd met. Recently. And you didn't tell me."

"Really, sir," the countess spoke up, pulling on Raoul to move him to her other side, protecting him from her husband's ire. "Given the terrible events of the last evening, he's hardly to blame for such a thing escaping his mind."

"It's all right, Maman," Raoul said, not moving from where he stood. "I wasn't certain it was him until last night. And I wasn't going to buy your good graces with the news after your lecture and you left too abruptly this morning to even greet you in passing, let alone give you any news."

Christine watched as the count's face grew slightly red with anger, but it was also obvious that Raoul had truth behind his words. "You will welcome him home when he comes down from his bath." He looked to his wife. "We will all welcome him."

"Of course we will, my dear," the countess replied. Her voice held all the motherly affection of a Nile crocodile. Christine shivered at the image. "We're all very glad to have him back after all these years."

"You never mentioned you had a brother, Raoul." Her quiet comment echoed in the room. Even the servants stared at her, then Raoul. Christine flushed as she glanced around at everyone.

"My brother was--is some seven, eight years my senior," Raoul explained, his voice thinner and more strained than she'd ever heard it before. "Shortly before my first birthday, he ran away. So we were told by his nurse."

"Lying bitch," the count muttered. "I never believed her. Erik would never leave of his own volition. We were too close, he and I. Upon investigation, it turned out that a gypsy band had been in the area when he disappeared. They must have stolen him, it's the only explanation. I have spent more than twenty years, hunting down every stinking gypsy band in Europe, trying to find my son."

Christine moved closer to put a hand on his arm, sympathizing with the man's loss all these years. She understood what it was to suddenly lose a dear loved one. He gave her a genuine smile and patted her hand.

"For years, I've been assured repeatedly that he was dead." He looked pointedly at his wife but his gaze softened as he looked back at Christine. "But I could never believe that. A deChangy bears the scars of such encounters, he does not roll over and give his belly to them. And time has proven me right."

"Excuse me, Monsieur le Count," Charbonneau, the butler, said from the doorway. "Dinner is ready."

"Go in," he told Christine, sweeping it out to encompass his wife and younger son. "I'll see what's keeping Erik."

He kissed the back of her hand politely and left, his step that of a man half his years. It did her heart good to see some good come out of the horrible night of the fire after all.

The moment of shared happiness ended abruptly as Raoul claimed her arm and brought his black cloud of displeasure over her. They were almost to the dining room before the truth struck her.

His missing brother's name was Erik. Raoul had not known his brother until last night. Her Angel of Music, her maestro was the rightful heir to the deChangy title and fortune, not Raoul.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Bathing in hot, steaming water was a treat that Erik found he relished after all this time. His skin still tingled beneath the silken robe as the man chosen to be his valet escorted him around his appointed chambers.

The sitting room was furnished, every flat surface filled with little things he'd made as a child. He took down the small Roman ballista, surprised to see it again after all these years. He remembered the long hours carefully carving each piece. How many times had he wound the string around and around until it had actually worked? He didn't recall anymore, but the boyish delight when it successfully launched hat pins across the nursery to catch his nurse unaware came back all too quickly.

Erik smiled at the memory and replaced it on the shelf. The dour woman had never been happy with her employ, but she'd stayed the longest of all his nurses. Until she and the gardener dragged him to the gypsy camp and sold him as a freak.

He should have used bigger pins.

Finding all his childish little gadgets, even the ones only half-completed, collected and displayed with such care touched him strangely. Erik paused, uncertain what to do with the odd sensation churning inside him.

Why had he been rejected so violently if his things, his room had become something of a shrine to his boyhood?

The table beside the upholstered chair held books on architecture, design, the great masters of various arts. All books he would like to read, had he known they existed. He ran his fingertips over the leather binding. Purchased in his absence, on topics his father knew fascinated him.

It had been a servant who flatly repulsed him, not his parents. It had been servants who sold him into captivity.

Should he have persisted in seeing his father? In his memory, the rejection still loomed absolute. He'd killed a man, after all.

And last night, he'd unquestionably burned down a theater and kidnapped a woman and nearly killed at least two men, perhaps hundreds of people. And yet, his father had all charges dismissed with a simple phrase: _You have the wrong man._ Even though he was truly guilty, he was a free man now.

Could Antoinette have been so very wrong all those years ago and his childish belief been right?

Erik moved into the bedchamber where the valet had lain out clothes for him for the evening. He moved so quietly, the servant startled away with an audible yelp and then quickly muttered an apology, refusing to look at his face.

"Go."

The valet proved he was a well-trained servant and merely bowed slightly and beat a hasty retreat. Erik glared after him as he picked up the shirt. Alone was far better than being stared at in private.

As he dressed, Erik debated on changing his plans and staying. Perhaps he had been wanted by his family all this time. Perhaps the devious servants had all be dealt with appropriately. Perhaps he should forget Vienna and stay.

But, no. Raoul would be in residence here in Paris. Would he have brought Christine with him? Of course he would. Erik frowned at the memory of his brother sitting guard outside of Christine's dormitory door. Raoul would trust no one but himself to keep Christine safe now.

"Safe," he muttered under his breath and chuckled. As if he could truly ever hurt her. Erik paused in the buttoning of the fine linen shirt.

If Raoul had her here, that meant she would be at dinner. His breath froze in his lungs at the thought even as his desire for her welled up far lower.

Would he be able to keep his resolve to give Christine her happiness with his accursed brother?

Would he be able to keep his tenuous hold on the Light?

He finished dressing quickly, knowing without thinking that Darkness still had too tight a control on his soul. He could slip far too easily, far too deep before he knew it. He couldn't stay when he was so dangerous. Not around Christine. He would not risk her, his greatest achievement in so many ways.

The realization burned his eyes. Beyond his ability to comprehend, he loved her. He still wanted her in every way possible. How could he be in the same building with her again, knowing her inherent sweetness and not crave her? Knowing that he'd given her away and could never have her again?

Alone, he could walk through the door, find his way through the servants' corridors and be gone before anyone would notice. It would be so simple. So easy. He would never have to risk losing to the Darkness.

The door opened without so much as a scratch to ask permission. Erik turned to see his father filling the doorway. "Are you coming down for dinner?"

Erik heard the unspoken questions behind the words: _Are you leaving already? Did you leave the first time because you wanted to? Will you give me a chance?_

Odd, that he understood what was meant rather than what was said so clearly. It did not feel like a new ability, just one that he'd never consciously thought about before.

He met the count's eyes, so like his own. Leaving now would destroy the one man Erik had loved as a child. Staying would risk the woman he loved as a man.

The path of Light refused to be easy.

Erik drew a breath and looked away, letting his gaze fall upon the abundance of books gathered for him in his absence.

His chest ached at the choice. Darkness urged him to utter destruction, yet chuckled at the thought of tempting Christine back into its grasp.

Standing there, looking at his father, his hand on the leather face of a book, Erik realized the strangling truth that without Darkness there could be no true choice for Light. To leave was not only destructive, but cowardly. In his entire life, he had never taken the coward's path.

The count approached slowly, as if afraid Erik would bolt if there was a sudden movement toward him. Erik drew himself up, rooting himself in the spot against the misconception and his own indecision. His father put a hand on his shoulder. Erik looked at it.

"Everything will be made right. I swear it to you. Just give me time."

"What is 'everything'?"

"Those charges. The opera house. Your title --"

His title. Erik remembered the announcement on stage that Firmin and André were pleased to present their new patron, the Viscount deChangy while the rightful viscount stood in the rafters, watching. The first sight of his younger brother striding across the stage boiled the blood in Erik's veins.

Yet, over the passing months, hearing Raoul proclaimed as the viscount stung less and less until it was barely a dull ache compared to the other wounds to his pride and authority.

The count squeezed his shoulder. "I know you're not the monster the papers claim you to be."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you're my son."

Once again, Erik heard clearly what was not spoken. This room had been furnished to appease the man the count dreamed his heir would become, filled with gifts for that imaginary, perfect son. And now he would be expected to play that role.

"Why was I left to my fate?"

"I have searched for you from the very hour I received word of your disappearance, I swear to you. We were told your ran off, with the gypsies."

"I was sold to them by my nurse. For two francs." Erik wasn't certain what caused the look of horror on the count's face, the idea of the sale or the paltry amount that a viscount commanded all those years ago. "At least you knew I would never run."

"Then don't run now, Erik. Be all that you should have been from the start and put that ugliness behind you."

Did he dare believe that was possible? Yet Erik craved it with his entire being, to become a man Christine could honestly love, a man whose only fault lay only in the monstrosity of his face.

Erik nodded slowly and walked with his father out of the room, down to the dining room for dinner.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for all the enthusiastic reviews. I'm so glad you're enjoying the story and hope you like this next installment.

To quote Raoul: "And now, to supper."

Chapter Five

Christine sat in her chair beside Raoul and tried not to breathe deeply. The rising tension in the room crawled over her skin with tiny, prickling feet. Any intake of air made it feel like she took that sensation inside her and she didn't like that.

She stole a glance at Raoul, then at his mother at the end of the table, but their faces yielded no insight. It made no sense to her. She could understand Raoul having problems putting aside the grudges about the opera, but the Phantom was his only brother. How could both of them act as if the Angel of Death himself had taken up residence among them?

The countess was the one who puzzled her the most. A long-lost son returned home. Even if he was disfigured, why wasn't his mother as jubilant has his father?

She paused in that thought. What had Erik said about his mother in those moments before Raoul appeared? How his own mother feared and loathed him. She hadn't understood that thought then. Now, knowing who his mother was, perhaps Christine understood what he meant better, even if she didn't think it was right or natural. But, then, she'd often wondered as a child if the woman was right or natural.

In the absolute silence filling the room, the two sets of footsteps on the stairs echoed like rifle shots. She startled, almost bolting from her chair. One look from Raoul steadied her, though. Her fiancé rested a restraining hand on her arm as the count appeared in the archway. Her Angel of Music stepped around him, stopping just inside the room.

Seeing the two men, father and son, standing together, Christine knew why the count had seemed so familiar on their first meeting. Had his son not been disfigured, he would have been the spitting image of the deChangy rugged handsomeness.

Her Angel's gaze swept over the room, taking in every detail, just as he always did, but finally rested on her. Just like at the Masked Ball, the entire world fell away as their eyes met. In her sight, the nastiness of his face blurred away by the magnificence of the talent she knew he possessed. The talent he'd shared with her, taught her, shown her that she also possessed.

"You remember your brother, don't you, Raoul?" the count asked.

"Yes, Papa," Raoul replied tersely. "He's rather unforgettable."

Erik's lips curled in the evil mockery of a smile she knew more from his voice than from his expression, as he turned his regard to his brother. "I see you've outgrown your need for a bib at dinner."

Raoul straightened at the jibe, but he said nothing. Christine couldn't stop looking at her Angel in the flesh, alive and safe. It felt as if a weight of guilt had been forgiven and forgotten to know he'd come to no harm after all.

"You're in your brother's seat, Raoul," the count said as he advanced on the head of the table.

"But –" the countess objected.

"No, my dear. Erik is home now. I won't tolerate Raoul usurping what is rightfully his any more."

Raoul's jaw tightened and his eyes became hard as well, but he nodded to her and rose from his seat to take the chair at his father's left instead of the right. Christine caught her breath again, this time as she realized it meant that she would be seated next to her teacher.

The Phantom moved with the grace born of his class as he took his rightful place. She realized that now. How he'd always been noble, even while living in the catacombs beneath the opera house. The sheer brilliance of his intellect and talent to have flourished without instruction or nurturing, only under his own ambition, stunned her. She couldn't think of another person who would not have crumbled in the same situation.

Without thinking, she put her hand on his arm in greeting, drawn by a force far more powerful than mere physicality.

Erik turned his gaze back upon her. So distant, even though he sat right next to her. His eyes were haunted, yet Christine swore she saw the same adoration lurking in the grey-green depths. His lips parted, but he did not speak.

"Angel?" she whispered. She'd meant it as an acknowledgement, but it came out a question under the intensity of his gaze.

"You're acquainted?" the countess asked.

Erik looked at his mother, all trace of warmth lost even from the deepest depths of his gaze. Again, the hard smile she knew so well played at his lips. "You might say I arranged her reintroduction to my brother."

That won an outright frown from the countess.

Christine took her hand back as the servers brought out the first course and started to distribute it.

What little conversation there had been at their entrance died away entirely. Christine looked between the deChangys, not knowing if she should start one or not, or even what topic might be appropriate. The count's attention was totally captured by Erik. Erik's attention seemed to be on the meal and smiling at Raoul, who scowled as politely as he could in return. And while the countess did not look at anyone beside the servers, Christine guessed that the silence wore on her badly as well.

"I am glad you escaped the fire," she said to Erik, trying to keep her tone appropriate to the casual conversation. "Did you manage to save anything?"

The deformed side of his face twitched slightly as he turned to regard her. She swallowed to banish the feeling of chastisement and pressed on.

"I was thinking of your music box. I—I liked it very much. It was most unusual."

"A music box?" the count repeated. "What sort of music box?"

"It was fairly small, sir," she answered his question. "Small enough to fit on my lap. It played a song I'd never heard before. It had a very cheery melody, but was also quite haunting. The most remarkable thing was the monkey that sat atop it. It wore Eastern—Persian, I think, clothing. Little pants and a vest, with a little round hat, and played the cymbals in time with the music. It was most remarkable."

"Did you make this yourself, Son?"

"It was a minor distraction." Erik dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. "A puzzle long ago solved and forgotten."

His response made no sense to her. He'd kept it at his bedside. It played for her when she woke in his bed her first trip to his lair, waking her sweetly. Even more, she could clearly see him as he had been the night before, after he'd told her to take Raoul and save themselves, listening to the box's tune. She remembered the tears in his eyes. He'd looked so lost, far more lost than she'd ever felt. Her heart went out to him yet again, that man who loved so deeply who now lay hidden behind this cold role he played so well.

Christine fell into silence. She'd thought the music box would be the most innocuous subject to discuss, but apparently she was wrong. Whether it had been something special or she'd misunderstood its importance, it was obvious that Erik did not want his family to know the details of his life as the Phantom.

Now that the silence had been broken, the count seemed to have no problems asking questions of his prodigal son. "Where have you been living all these years, Son?"

"Here, in Paris."

"And you never came here?"

"I was refused entrance," Erik replied casually.

The count slammed both hands on the table, making stem and silverware rattle. Christine jumped in surprise as well. "Tell me who and I'll –"

"Papa, be reasonable," Raoul interrupted, his voice strained but calm. "The entire staff here has changed three times in my life. Unless he stopped by in the last two years, whoever was responsible is long out of our service."

"It's inexcusable!"

Raoul sat back, a sly smile lighting his elegant features as he regarded Erik. Christine shivered. She'd never seen him look so calculating before. "Why don't you explain how you escaped the gypsies, dear brother?"

She tensed on her maestro's behalf. Raoul knew something he shouldn't know about Erik's past. Even more, she could see that her fiancé was thoroughly enjoying the challenge of forcing Erik to reveal whatever that was. Outrage kindled a spark in her breast on her teacher's behalf.

Yet her Angel didn't appear at all distressed as he sat back in his chair, cradling his wine glass in both hands. "I overpowered my captor and escaped my cage with the help of a kind-hearted spectator to the debacle of my face."

"They put you on display?" The count smacked the table again in his upset.

Christine put her hand on Erik's arm. "In a cage? Like an animal?"

"I was billed as 'The Devil's Child'," Erik continued, his voice still surprisingly relaxed and conversational. If it were not for her touch, Christine would have believed that he was utterly unbothered by what had happened so long ago. But she felt the tension in his arm. From this angle, she saw the quiet twitch in his jaw. He neatly transformed that discomfort into a knowing smile. "I'm so pleased I found a way to amuse you, monsieur."

Raoul's smile was undeniable, as if he knew he'd won something important.

"I want the name of this troupe of outlaws," the count ground out. "I will have them hunted down and –"

"I assure you, sir," Erik interrupted, his voice filling the room with its velvet tones, utterly smothering his father's ranting, "that had I wished such a event, I would have arranged it long ago."

"So," the countess spoke up, nearly masking the sound of her husband's gnashing teeth, "did you see anything of interest in the boutiques today, Raoul? You did go shopping, did you not?"

No one argued with the blatant change of subject to something completely inane. Christine fell silent again, not knowing enough to contribute anything meaningful to the conversation and not caring enough to try.

There was so very much so very wrong here. It was one thing to recognize it, and entirely another to guess what to do. More than anything, she wanted a chance to talk to her Angel in private. He always had a way of making everything so clear, whether or not she agreed with his assessments. She needed that clarity now, before she could decide what best to do next.

The next challenge would be how to get a private audience with him. Christine had the distinct impression it would be harder now that they were both flesh in the same house than when he was merely a voice echoing to her from nowhere.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Raoul gritted his teeth throughout the farce called dinner and into the study afterward. No, that wasn't exactly correct. 'Farce' implied there was some type of comedy involved and there was nothing humorous about his father's fawning over that monster. Not to mention Christine's all-too-frequent adoring, even longing, gazes.

And now the three gathered as fashionable gentlemen for after-dinner conversation, cigars and brandy. But there was no conversation. Only their father smoked and no one had touched the rich amber liquid in their snifters.

The monster was smart, Raoul gave him that. Even craftier than he'd suspected after their long duel over the theater. He could not afford to underestimate this opponent again.

If nothing else, the 'Phantom of the Opera' had always been direct about his desires. He'd wanted la Carlotta out of the limelight and Christine in it. In spite of himself, Raoul could not dispute the artistic wisdom of that demand. His disagreement came on the point of who had the right to make such a decision. Certainly not some deformed, mad cretin who lived beneath the building.

The Phantom had desired operas staged and produced to his specifications. He expected a very profitable box to be held for his unpaid usage. Not to mention the outrageous salary. Raoul picked up his brandy and swirled it in the glass. What had Erik done with all the money he'd extorted over the years?

There was only one thing Raoul could think of that the man could want here and now, and that was Christine. It was very wily of him, Raoul had to admit. Let Raoul escort her out while the Phantom made his escape. There would be no great, immediate man hunt if he wasn't a kidnapper. If the theater had not burned and Christine safe, it was possible that no one would have pursued him at all.

The knowledge that he would have to keep Christine safe again quickened his pulse. Perhaps he could convince her to elope. Surely, after everything else, the scandal would be minimal in comparison. His mother would certainly be beside herself, but Raoul rather liked the idea of having Christine as his own immediately. A quick marriage, then a leisurely honeymoon. Perhaps they would take a ship over to America and take in the sights there. Raoul had no doubt his father would maintain his accounts for such a trip, since it would leave him with his precious son exclusively.

And then Papa would discover that all that glitters is not gold, as the saying went.

A small smile graced his lips before he took a sip of the excellent brandy, his eyes never leaving the quiet figure of his newly returned brother.

Raoul might have lost the theater, but he could not lose Christine.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note**Thanks for all the reviews. I've been having a bit of a bleak time the last week or so, wondering about all the writing stuff at all. Kind and enthusiastic words certain helps the story flowing. Hope you all enjoy this chapter as well.

And, yes, Christine finally gets to see her Angel alone this chapter. Actually, she gets to see more of her Angel than she ever considered before. ;-)

Chapter Six

Dawn had spilled over her room some time ago, and the dusty rose light was now washed with a lazy yellow. Christine lay in bed, watching the change, trying to reflect on how perfect it all was for the rose decor, but no frivolous passion came. By this time, she normally would have gobbled down her breakfast and stood with the other chorus girls, limbering and stretching to the beat of Mme. Giry's eternal staff.

Around the bars, stage hands would be moving out the sets and props from the previous night's show in order to bring in whatever was needed for the rehearsal of the next opera on the agenda. Nothing ran forever, and the ballet prided itself on being ready before the singers had sung their first rehearsal.

Mme. Giry demanded nothing less.

Christine sat up, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. She'd never thought she'd ever miss the taciturn ballet mistress, but she did. "I just saw them yesterday," she reminded herself in a whisper, afraid to disturb the dawn.

The silence of the house overwhelmed the comfort of the reminder.

Even if she rose, there was nothing for her to do. Servants might not even be preparing breakfast at this early hour and she hated the idea that someone would be roused simply because she didn't want to sleep anymore. It might be their job, but she didn't want to upset what was obviously a well-established routine. That was not the way to start a new life in a new place.

Something crashed outside her room, closely followed by a pained scream.

Without thinking, Christine scrambled out of bed and ran to the hallway. Her room was located closest to the hallway, while family rooms were tucked in the more protected length. The light streaming in large leaded window at the end of the hall showed nothing amiss. For a moment, she wondered if she'd dozed off and had a slight nightmare.

Then a door on the other side banged open and a middle-aged man staggered out, his arm hugged tightly across his chest. His sobbing seemed to echo an eerie counterpoint to the bright cheeriness of the morning light. He staggered toward the corner, jabbing his good elbow at the paneled wall.

Without thinking, she took a step or two toward him, intending to help, but stopped as another, taller, figure burst from the room. The morning light cast his nude body into a silhouette as he stalked the servant. Christine watched his body move through the wash of brightness. For a moment, he seemed to be garbed only in a halo. Her Angel in truth.

"Maestro?"

She didn't think she'd more than breathed the name, but he stopped his advance and half-turned to her. The whispers of yellow-gold light caught the outline of his muscles, emphasizing his scandalous lack of garb. Christine couldn't help but stare, captured completely by the unexpected majesty of him.

For the briefest moment, he seemed to pose in silhouette before he just seemed to vanish before her eyes and the door to his room closed again.

Another door opened across the hall from hers and Raoul appeared. His dressing gown flapped around his trousered legs. "What happened?"

She shook her head and gestured toward the servant cowering in the corner, then felt his gaze move to her less-then-appropriate dress. She blushed and crossed her arms over herself before rushing back into the room.

Danielle stood in the room when she returned, shaking and wide-eyed, a wrap pulled over her own nightgown. "Miss?"

"There's a man hurt. M. Erik's valet, I think."

"Henri!" The woman rushed past her into the hallway.

Christine sank onto the bed, still holding onto her shoulders, and stared blankly at the rose pattern on the carpet. She'd had no thought at all about propriety until Raoul stood in the hallway, then she'd became too embarrassed to stay. And Raoul had been properly dressed while her Angel--her Angel had been bared to the skin without only light and shadow to clothe him.

She closed her eyes as her entire seemed to flush at the memory. It was foolishness, she knew. She'd seen naked men countless times before--there was no privacy in the theater, after all.

Somehow, this was different. She closed her eyes as her entire body seemed to heat and flush at the memory.

It was wrong. She shouldn't be thinking of her teacher naked, as if he were just any other man. He wasn't just any man. He was--he was--

Christine swallowed hard and hugged her knees, unable to finish that thought.

She simply should not be thinking that way, she told herself. It was wrong. Entirely inappropriate to have such thoughts, such warm feelings about--someone who wasn't her fiancé. Yes, that was it. That's what she should be thinking about. Someday, very soon, she'd marry Raoul. And he's the one she should imagine naked and center her thoughts on. He would be the father of her children, after all.

A shiver like the harshest winter wind ran through her. She climbed back under the covers and laid down as tears misted her eyes. But it was impossible to think of Raoul that way. All she had to do was look around the room at all the roses and her mind went back to her Angel. Roses had always been the mark of his esteem. Raoul had never thought to give them to her, always preferring large and garish displays to the simplistic perfection of a single rose.

Her Angel. Her fiancé's brother.

There was no justice in the world.

How long it took for Danielle to return, she didn't know, but she had reached the end of her tolerance for lying in bed. The maid busied herself with getting out the green gown and laying it out for her.

"How is --" Christine searched for the man's name "--Henri?"

"I think his arm is broken. They've summoned a physician."

Danielle's hands shook badly as she unfastened the buttons of the gown. Christine paused, uncertain what to say. "Are you--close? You and Henri?"

"He is my brother, Miss." The woman gave her an unsteady smile then looked quickly back at her work, as if that admission had been a mistake she had to pretend she hadn't made.

Whyever couldn't someone be concerned for their brother? Christine frowned slightly as she made use of the facilities before changing out of her nightclothes. "Do you know what happened?"

"No, Miss. He's not much in a mood for conversation. He was always the more fragile of the lot of us."

A fragile man serving as Erik's valet seemed like a cruel joke indeed. "Whoever gave him that position --" She let the thought go unfinished as Danielle pulled the dress over her head and fitted it against her stays. It wouldn't do to say anything bad against Raoul's family.

"The countess, Miss. She makes all the household staffing decisions."

Christine frowned over her shoulder. "Does the countess have anything against your brother?"

"Not that I know of, Miss. Our grandmother served the family well and we were at the main house is Rouen until the staff changed here two years ago."

She let the subject drop as Danielle finished looping the long row of tiny buttons and then set her down to do her hair.

The entire situation seemed a little odd to her, but she was glad to know the man wasn't seriously injured. Was Erik's ability to loose his temper something recent, or had he been prone to such attacks as a boy? No, she found it hard to believe that anyone, even the countess, could be so cold-hearted as to arrange for such an event to happen. Especially on the morning of his home coming. It just made no sense.

Yet, Christine could remember the first time she'd seen her maestro break into violence. Closing her eyes, she could see the scene so clearly still. Her Angel sitting there at the organ, his air so delightfully uncertain, even nervous. It gave her the courage to come up to him, to touch him with all the tenderness she'd felt at the time. How she'd romanticized him in her imagination. The mysterious genius, her elusive teacher whose voice soothed and caressed her in her loneliest and most fearful moments. Her one source of unfailing confidence and support alive and in the flesh. She'd wanted to touch him, to assure herself that he was real and the entire trip to this hidden place hadn't been a dream alone.

And he was real. She'd felt so connected to him, she'd wanted no barriers between them. She'd wanted to be possessed, to be totally his, and he should be the same to her. She'd removed his mask and his anger exploded.

It had scared her terribly, though he did nothing more than push her away. He'd called her horrible, hurtful names, but nothing more, then the upset was over as if it had never happened. All forgiven and sometimes even forgotten. At least, until violence exploded around him again.

As Danielle pinned her hair up for the day, Christine's memory slipped back to the final confrontation in his secret abode. _Choose me, and he'll live. Choose him and he dies._ Raoul hung on the portico, half-strangled, drenched. She couldn't let him die, but as she faced Erik, she knew that was not reason she decided as she did. He was still her Angel of Music. While she loved Raoul, she knew she could never live without music. Erik had been all things wonderful, given her every confidence that she would share in that exquisite state that he simply seemed to occupy just by being alive.

And yet, in the end, she'd been rejected, sent back to the normal world with Raoul, to live a normal life without the perfection of ultimate music.

Now, when she thought about her Angel, her mind went not to the rough velvet voice in the darkness, or the fashionably dressed stranger in the mirror, or even the dashing Don Juan. No, her naughty mind cast up the imagine she'd just seen in the hallway, the unclad silhouette, just as mysterious and even more sexy for keeping the mystery.

She licked her suddenly try lips and caught her reflection in the mirror. She was an engaged woman, she should not have that look on her face while thinking of another man. Especially not her fiancé's brother.

Christine closed her eyes, not wanting to think about that relationship, about how close one brother came to killing the other. How much they hated each other.

Was it just because of her, or was there something more?

She didn't know, but surely she could find out. It was very likely she was the only one who could make peace between them. It was the only right and proper thing she could do, after all. She did not want to spend the rest of her life in fear for her husband or unable to speak to his brother.

"Very becoming, Miss."

Christine blinked and glanced into the mirror at her reflection and nodded. She looked away from herself to see the maid's face, pinched from the morning's events. She understood the expression completely, yet propriety insisted she not acknowledge it. Christine gave the woman a smile, hoping that conveyed her empathy. "Thank you. It's lovely."

"Will there be anything more, Miss?"

In theory, some of her dresses ordered the day before should arrive today, but Christine didn't want to hold Danielle to the room to wait for them. Not when there was family who needed her. "No, that's all. Merci." The maid curtsied and started back into her little room off the fireplace, still in her own nightclothes. "Danielle. I hope he recovers quickly."

"Thank you, Miss. I'll give him your good wishes."

Left alone, Christine gazed into the mirror and wondered what she'd do with her time until the deChangy family began their day.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Christine paused at the foot of the stairway, listening for any sort of movement in the great foyer or coming from down the hall. The paneled walls around her seemed to absorb all sounds, so totally different from the comforting echoes of all the voices and footfalls she was used to. It was more than a little unnerving.

Reason demanded that there should be someone up and moving in the kitchen, since meals always took far longer to prepare than to consume. Perhaps she might be able to beg a cup of something and a small snack until the day officially started. Her stomach grumbled in happy agreement with the plan.

On the other side of the hallway from the parlor she knew so well, she swore she heard a piano playing beyond the double doors. She placed her hands on the carved wood, feeling the music through the well-polished surface. She knew that music, the Queen of the Night's aria from Mozart's _The Magic Flute_. She'd sung it how many times, alone in the chapel with only her Angel. It was one of the most difficult piece for a soprano ever written, with the highest notes, and he'd guided her into mastering it barely a month before the new managers took over the theater and Raoul reappeared in her life.

That seemed like such a lifetime ago.

The door opened silently and she slipped inside. Erik deChangy sat at the keyboard, his eyes closed as he coaxed beauty from the instrument. For a moment, Christine stood, closing her eyes as well, and allowed the music to sweep her away from the townhouse and back to the happier times at the opera. The words came naturally to her lips, and she sang quietly so she wouldn't wake the still sleeping family.

The music suddenly stopped.

Shocked from her reverie, she looked over at him. He'd stood and moved away from the keyboard, as if to deny he'd ever touched the piano.

Awkwardness filled the silence. She swallowed, not able to avoid the sense of having walked in on a private moment. Glancing around the room offered no escape from the ill-ease. Even leaving would be only a temporary stay of disapproval. She's learned long ago that she dared not shirk her responsibility for claiming mistakes with her teacher.

Her voice did not crack or strain as she greeted him. "Good morning, Maestro."

"My name is Erik. M. deChangy, if you prefer. I am no longer your teacher. And good morning." His voice was short, sharp, distant, but not hostile.

Not hostile, but not what she expected either. Christine paused again before speaking. "I'm sorry to interrupt. We've just worked on that aria so many times..."

"It is of no consequence. Forgive me for disturbing you—Christine."

The awkward silence returned. Perhaps it was wiser to leave. It seemed he wanted her to leave, but this was her opportunity to talk with him. She doubted she'd have another once Raoul fully roused himself for the day.

Now that she had the opportunity, she didn't know how to broach the subject. Truth be told, she was so uncertain, she didn't know what all she needed clarity on. She glanced down at her hands, found herself playing with her fingers. She frowned at the childish action and properly clasped her hands. "May I ask what Henri did?"

"Henri?"

"Your valet. This morning."

Erik regarded her momentarily, as if weighing her right to even question him. The silence of his consideration weighted her breathing. "No. You may not."

"Oh."

She looked to the great bank of windows behind him, at the bright announcement of the day beyond, and stifled a yawn from the lack of activity in her morning. She wasn't certain she could adjust to a life of such lackadaisical luxury. This morning, she should have been up before dawn and rehearsing. A new production had opened, so Mme. Giry should have been teaching them the dances for the next one. The day was non-stop until the late afternoon, when they were allowed to rest and clear their minds of the new dances and concentrate on the ones for the show that night. It was far, far different from what she'd experienced in the last two days.

Than she'd experience for the rest of her life.

She missed the opera and everything she knew.

"Do you miss the opera, Maes--Erik?"

"No."

He said no more than that. How could that question be answered so coldly? "How can you not? It was our life --"

"Life changes, my dear. Nothing ever stays the same for long."

"Yes, I know that," she agreed, "but that doesn't mean you don't miss what you had."

"One would have to be sentimental to suffer from such things."

"And you're not sentimental?"

Erik looked to the piano, as if it were a departing lover. Her heart went out to him. She wanted to offer him comfort, but had no idea how.

How could a man stand so close and yet be so distant?

"I cannot afford to be," he finally answered her question.

The sunlight brightened, casting his body into silhouette again, this time highlighting it with a full wash of its color. In her mind's eye, she saw him as he was in the hallway again and quickly averted her gaze. It took a moment to gain control of her breathing again.

The rattle of china called her attention to the doorway behind her. A blurry-eyed maid carried in a tray with a silver pot and two drink settings. Without a word, she placed it on a table beside the door, curtsied, and departed, never raising her eyes to look at either of them. Christine glanced back at her Angel, knowing all too well he was the cause of the behavior.

He knew it too.

For all that it appeared in his movements and his expression, such reactions didn't bother him. Christine wondered what a touch on his arm would reveal.

"Chocolate," he explained, gesturing to the tray.

She stared at it for a moment, all-too-aware that she hadn't known he like chocolate at all. Or had he gotten it because it was one of her favorites? But that would mean he would have to have known she would join him. There were two cups, after all. She crossed over to the tray, poured a cup and took it to him. "You've always taken such good care of me. Was it always for my voice alone?"

Her Angel closed his eyes and looked for all the world like a great weariness had settled over him. After a moment, he took the cup of chocolate but would not meet her concerned gaze. "Yes."

His simple answers stung far worse than any insult he'd ever throw at her in a fit of anger.

He turned his naked face from her, hiding the disfigurement she was already adjusting to seeing. The handsome side was guarded against all hint of emotion or reason behind the answer. Christine suddenly understood why he kept his other face hidden. It would betray all his inner secrets and desires. As it did after their escape from the theater, when she saw the bewilderment and pain from the audience's reaction. After she'd kissed him. She remembered his face, the tears in his eyes, so vividly. Had it been love she'd seen in his eyes? She still couldn't identify everything in his expression, even now. She could not guess the reason for his tears.

"Did I hurt you?" She touched the side of the face he gave her. He moved away, into the broad opening of the room and away from the confining space near the window. "How did I hurt you when I kissed you?"

"And why do you have the impression I was injured?"

This was the thing she needed clarity on. After choosing him over all other options in the world, kissing him with all the acceptance she felt, she realized now how, in that moment, how much she needed him beyond the music. And he'd rejected her. That had been the stunning numbness that lasted into her sleep that night.

And now, here he was in her life again and she still felt that connection to him. Despite his cool words, that connection refused to release her. It was as if her entire future hinged on that one moment, those two kisses. She just had to make sense of it to know what she needed to do.

She searched his face, but there was no hint of his feeling the connection was there had been so many times before. Nearly every time they'd met before.

"You cried," she pressed.

"And pain is the only thing that can bring tears to the eye?"

Both words and tone mocked her concern as well as denied her any real answer.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**

Chapter Seven

Erik watched Christine turn away, back to the chocolate pot, and held his breath to keep from calling her back.

Lying to her that way was a shade of grey compared to the deep Darkness of telling her the truth. His attention had started for her voice, that much was true, but it had changed recently. From the moment he brought her down to his adobe and explained the power of music, he'd wanted more of her. Music was their unshatterable bond, and it would tie their hearts and souls forever, but he'd started to dream of all those things forbidden to him. Those kisses before sending her away had been the first taste of those dreams and he'd longed for far more.

More would cost them both all chance for happiness, for it would pull her away from the Light and into the pit of Darkness.

Erik faced the window. The sunlight burned his eyes but he accepted the punishment and reminder of his new life, and his commitment to it.

If only temptation to turn his back on his decision didn't rise its head in every breath, every bit of conversation. How easy it would be to undo his one great work with a slip of the tongue. Shattering hopes and dreams came as naturally to him still as breathing. He only prayed doing the right would get easier with time.

Christine sat and poured herself a cup, holding it in both hands but not tasting it. Erik glanced down at his own untouched drink and forced himself to take a sip of the bittersweet contents. He'd loved chocolate as a child, but now could not remember why.

"Did you know I'd join you?" she asked, forcing him into temptation again.

That she'd join him at what? On stage? That she'd choose him over Raoul that night? That there had been a miracle and loved him? Or merely that she'd come down to this room this morning? "Was I to think you'd laze in bed all day? And would you not seek out the music room?"

"I heard the music," she said softly, as if apologizing for the intrusion. "It was as if you were--calling me with it."

He had been, quietly hoping to see her again without the presence of his family. A few moments alone with her, to see her again, to experience her one more time. And then she'd appeared, merging her voice to the sweet agony of Mozart's song. But the temptation to drag her to him and never let go had been too strong. He had to step away from the music, away from her. He was too weak yet to enjoy such beauty safely without destroying it.

It was safer not to answer, he decided. He took another sip of chocolate and did not grimace.

"I should like to sing with you again--as we did when we--I was in the chapel. Sometimes I could hear the echoes of your organ playing there. I always wondered when I would get to sing something of your composition."

"And so you have."

She focused on her cup. If his ears had not been trained over the years to listen to her softest whispers, he might not have heard her. "Your music was far beyond the comprehension of most of the others, I'm afraid. I wish I could hear it performed --"

Curse the girl for pulling on the one thing he found hardest to continually deny himself. Music was their bond, and when he released her to Raoul, he had no desire to partake of it again and feel the emptiness well where she'd once resided in his life. Yet, he'd succumbed to the temptation and she innocently taunted him with his failure. His jaw clenched. In spite of himself, he couldn't keep his voice from lowering to a growl. "You will speak no more of anything I have done in the past. It is over now."

She set her drink aside with a light clatter of china. "How can you discard everything that ever mattered to you so flippantly? The opera was your life."

Erik had to be careful to keep the grotesque side of his face away from her. She knew him too well. No wonder Darkness tempted him to destroy her completely by taking her to himself. Like so many other Dark choices, it was self-preservation.

He barely held the conviction that he did not want to preserve that self and said nothing in return.

Christine sat back in the chair, the very picture of dejection. Her large eyes searched for something he could not guess, misting with clearly with tears.

_Rejecting her is the only way to save her. She will be happy, even if I fail and continue to wither in Hell for all eternity._

The reminder shored his resolve, but did nothing to dampen the pain tearing at his heart to see her this way.

"If I'm asked to sing in the evening," Christine asked quietly, "will you play for me?"

He should say no. He should remind her that she was soon to become a viscountess and such ladies did not sing in public. He should turn cold and heartless and scare her from ever being interested in anything he could possibly be involved with for the rest of his life.

But driving her totally away was the coward's path.

Christine sat with her head down, her hands clenched in her lap. He had never seen her so abandoned, even after the harshest critique of her performance. Would it be so very Dark to play music for her, should she want it? To share the one glorious beauty in both their lives? Was not music the very voice of Light? He could not see how any Darkness could tinge such a moment.

"I will accompany you," he offered. Her head rose, gratitude and pleasure lighting her eyes. "To any composer other than myself."

Her full lips opened to question, to protest, but his expression stopped the words from being spoken.

"Very well," she murmured, just as she had every other correction he'd given her over the years.

He could think of no way to explain to her that for the sake of his soul and her happiness, he had to leave behind the Music of the Night. To give into the desire to possess her utterly was the worst failure he could imagine, worse than prison, worse than death. He could choose any fate other than that.

That, he realized, was the soul source of his strength at the moment. His adoration for this woman would keep him in the Light.

And he would never be able to explain it to her.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

"Do not say a word, my dear," Maurice deChangy warned his wife as they met in the hallway. He was dressed for going out and knew all too well how she disliked anyone out and about before the proper time for calling.

Her lips thinned, but she obeyed the demand though it strained her every fiber to do so. While they'd had many arguments over the years, his word was always final. Especially in matters concerning their eldest son. At present, his entire world was wrapped around Erik's return, just as the search for him had been his life for more than twenty years.

Maurice had prayed that discovering his son alive and well would ease some of the gnawing in his heart since the unbelievable note first reached his hands. _Your son has fled the house and cannot be found_. It had been mailed by his nurse, not even telegraphed. His hands shook, his vision blurred in the first wave of outrage in decades of them. To spend time with his brilliant son, to encourage him to design and build any number of machines and small buildings had been a singular delight in his exhausting life. Building the family fortune gained purpose for him: Erik would have the best education to nurture his greatness. Maurice treasured a more worthy purpose for the wealth other than the fine living that his wife so enjoyed.

The horror of discovering his son gone dug so deeply into his soul, there was little room for anything else in his life. Only necessity had pulled him from the full depths of obsession. He could not ignore his businesses and accounts, or there would be nothing but poverty for Erik to return to.

Life had become simple to manage. Months of business, several weeks searching for clues, hunting for his missing son. Isabella doted on Raoul, keeping them both content and outside the deep pit of his focus.

It was just as well, after all, Maurice reflected. Raoul had none of his brother's exceptional abilities and fell far short of any expectation ever given him. Raoul was in all ways merely the spare to the missing heir. He would do, but only until the real one returned.

Yet, after all these years and success, Maurice expected to have more ease. Relief had been short-lived, barely lasting through the carriage ride home as he sat and stared at his son in absolute, dumb-founded amazement. The quiet dinner and evening did not comfort him, but only further fueled the outrage that had become such a part of him. His beloved son was a withdrawn stranger to him. His education had been non-existent. His brilliance might have been extinguished by the cruel life he'd been forced into.

Maurice wanted nothing more than bloody revenge, but Erik had nay-sayed him. He would bow to his son's desire, but it quenched nothing in his own gut.

Perhaps, despite his horrid life, his son had turned into a better man.

The thought choked silently.

But he would make it right by his son. It was all that was left to be done for him.

His wife took his arm as they descended the stairs, as normal. Though their affection for each other had strained over the years, Maurice still felt the old pride of having such a beautiful woman on his arm. The years and **strain** of their life had not faded her aristocratic beauty, only refined it. Isabella presented herself as the countess so well, people forgot that she was once a prima donna herself. At the foot of the stairs, he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers.

"And what was that for?" she asked.

"For believing in me, all this time. So many wives would've left their husbands to their insanity rather than stay at his side."

Her smile was tired, but truly affectionate. "Now, perhaps, life can return to normal."

"I intend it to," he promised.

There were only three places most likely to find Erik since he was not in his room. The library, the music room and, finally, the breakfast room in that order. Maurice kissed his wife's cheek again and went in search of his eldest. He opened the door to the music room first, since it was closest and was surprised to find both Erik and Raoul's fiancée immediately. The girl startled, staring at him. His son remained by the window, casting a coolly heated glare at him.

Maurice knew he had to take Erik to task for the incident this morning, but the simple sight of him melted all resolve to chastise. "What explanation can you give for your actions this morning, Son? That man has been a loyal servant for since you were a child. How could he have possibly offended you?"

Erik turned to face him, capturing his attention. The way his deformity pulled his one eye down, exposing it so unnaturally, gave him a suddenly malevolent air. His smile quirked the deformity further, creasing odd valleys into the mass throbbing on his cheek. "What explanation? What offense? The possible lists are endless, sir. Shall I simply choose a few for amusement's value?"

"I want the truth."

"You may want as suits you, but that puts me at no obligation to fulfill your desire."

The girl's look of utter shock at Erik's response did her credit. A well-bred girl, regardless of her previous employment. Maurice dismissed her reaction as he concentrated on his son. A thrill he hadn't felt in years surged and he fought to keep his face neutral. Such displays of such arrogant willfulness would be a curse to many fathers, but Maurice had always cultivated it and the independence it inspired. Erik always excelled while Raoul had never understood the game.

"Your obligation, sir, is to respect your father and be civil in my household."

"I would expect that my father's servants would be better trained and less rude in such a 'civilized' household." Erik turned away, obviously dismissing the topic as no longer important.

Maurice accepted the decision to end that part of the discussion without a further word. The exact offense no longer mattered. He could imagine it well enough. "Do you wish him dismissed from service?"

To his credit, Erik considered the question before answering. In his silence, the girl stirred, drawing both their attention momentarily. Something unspoken exchanged between them Maurice did not understand. The girl's expression was frightened, and Erik's became guarded before he turned back to the window.

"There is no reason to dismiss him," Erik said firmly.

"I'll have someone new --"

"I have no need or desire for a servant, sir. I have functioned quite well without one."

"My son will not tend his own laundry. Not in my house."

The silence grew weighty until Erik shrugged, releasing them. "As long as he take instruction better than the opera managers, there will be no more problems."

"The opera, yes. I need to consider what to do with that investment," he mused aloud. "I would appreciate your company today, Son. There are matters that need discussion."

Again the silence drew out, longer this time. Maurice felt his chest tighten with the certainty that Erik would refuse him outright in front of the girl rather than play the little word game. Yet, his son surprised him yet again by giving the smallest of nods and left, brushing by the girl without so much as a farewell.

Maurice gave her a nod before following his son's lead. Suddenly, he was not looking forward to this day's affairs as much has he had been.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

"I thought we should elope today. What do you say, darling?"

Christine startled at the touch on her hand and turned to stare at Raoul, not remembering when he sat down with her. A quick glance showed that her maes--Erik had left at some point. Where had the time gone? The last thing she recalled was his curt acknowledgement that Henri should not be dismissed, even as he dismissed her in turn. "I'm sorry. What was that?"

Raoul frowned slightly and shook his head. "I didn't think you were listening. I'm sorry for that start to the day. It's set the entire house off badly, I'm afraid."

Discussing what happened with him wouldn't improve the day, she knew. Forcing herself to remember what she wasn't paying attention a moment before made her eyes widen. "Did you just say we should elope?"

For a moment, she thought he was doing to confirm the suggestion. Her chest tightened at the thought. Elope, simply run off and get married. Join her life permanently to his without ceremony, without fanfare, without anyone's approval. How many times would she have done that, but at this moment, she couldn't.

"I was just trying to get your attention," he finally said.

"Oh."

It wasn't much, but it was all she could think of to say in the face of his quiet lie. That was what he truly wanted, to sweep her away from his family, from his brother, from everything she'd ever known and loved before. To start a new life with him.

When they fled the burning theater, she'd thought that was her only choice and she'd fought to accept it, to even be happy about it. Even the morning after the fire, if he'd offered to elope, she would have gone without a question in that blind need for comfort and security. But he didn't ask and her Angel appeared by some miracle.

And she'd sought his clarity and guidance this morning, and he'd rebuffed her.

For the first time in her life, she had no one telling her what to do or where to go. It was a drifting, weightless sensation that terrified her. Legally, Mme. Giry was still her guardian, but in reality the dear woman had enough to contend with in her life that she'd agree to most anything not obviously dangerous or immoral. Christine's lips quirked at that thought. Not that living with her fiancé before marriage wasn't considered scandalous and immoral.

"You should want to get out and about," Raoul continued easily. "It's not healthy to remain housebound too long."

She corrected herself: no one to guide her decisions, but someone to assure her how she should feel.

Annoyance flared. She rose from the seat and paced away, out of his reach, and stood by the same window Erik had gazed out of when they fell into their silence. The view was of the street in front of the house, at the various tradesmen bringing their wares house to house for the cooks to purchase the day's menus. No traveling to the common market for the kitchens of the wealthy.

"Darling." He came up behind her hand put his hands on her shoulders, as he had so often before.

Christine shivered, trying not to pull away from the embrace. "Why do you do that?"

"Pardon?"

"Why are you always telling me what I should want? How I should be feeling?" She turned to face them, ignoring how close it put their bodies to do so. He touched her face tenderly.

"I don't –"

"You just did. And you have since you first walked into my dressing room, telling me how I should be happy about going off to supper with you when I'd told you I couldn't. Don't you think I know how I feel? Don't you care?"

"That's not –"

"It is!" She put her hands on his chest, looking up into his face. His blue eyes looked confused and hurt. "I know you love me, Raoul. I can't doubt that. But I--I need time to adjust to my world changing again. Please."

"But of course. Whatever you need. Just tell me." He leaned in and gave her a kiss. "You are joining us for breakfast?"

The inflection to make it a question was almost an afterthought, but Christine appreciated that he was trying for her. "Of course."

He stepped away and politely offered his arm. She placed her hand on his forearm with a smile. It was the way things were done here. Raoul lead her from the room, pausing to open the door for her.

"Has anyone learned what caused the upset this morning?" she asked.

The frown returned to crease Raoul's handsome face. "My understanding from my valet is the man made the mistake of opening the curtain and letting the sun shine on his face. Didn't the mon--Erik tell you himself?"

"What were you going to call him? Raoul, what were you going to say? You were going to call him a monster, weren't you? How could you? He's your brother!" Her breath came hard as she stared at him, daring him to tell her the truth even while she knew he'd give her some sort of platitude and try to distract her. Nor did he disappoint her.

"Don't avoid the question," he said, his voice caring and patient. "I'm just curious what his side of the story was. I've no reason to think he'd tell me."

"Why don't you ask and find out?"

"Christine. Darling --"

"It's been a very stressful morning," she said firmly. "I believe I'll take my breakfast in my room."

Before he could respond, she swept out the door and back up the stairs. By the time she reached the sanctity of her room, her entire body was trembling as it never had before. Not from anger or any kind of nervousness or upset, but from the sheer power of the moment.

She had made a decision and acted on it and had not been stopped. It was a thrilling, heady moment and she stood among the carved and woven roses and savored it. Like her debut on the stage, flowers surrounded her and confirmed the grand achievement she knew she so properly deserved. She had taken a first step and she did not want to go back again.

She would have to make her own decisions and now she knew she could and act on them. It might not always be so easy, but she had never let easy be a deterrent before.

Without thinking, she ran her fingers along the carved stem of the roses carved into the bedpost and knew, deep in her heart, what she had to do next.

Her life was set. She was engaged to Raoul and would have to marry him. However, she owed far too much to Erik to simply turn her back on him in his hour of reunion with the world. He had been there, countless hours, for her when she joined the opera. She could do no less for him.

It was only right and fair, after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** This has been rewritten because I just wasn't happy with it the way it was. Thanks for your patience. I'll be posting Chapter 9 soon.

If my guess is wrong and the black horse on the way down to the catacombs is not a Friesian, I apologize. They're very beautiful, but I really don't know horses much.

And heart-felt thanks to those who've added this story to their favorites list. That means a great deal to me.

Chapter Eight

"Has your mother spoken to you yet?"

Erik continued to gaze out of the window of the carriage, the sights of Paris not as enchanting to view this morning. "The lady has not yet graced me with an interview."

"That is hardly a way to refer to your mother, Son."

"She ceased to be my mother long before I was sold off like filthy rags." He recognized the hurtful temptation even as it slipped from his lips. Once spoken, there was no apologizing. He found he could not apologize for the truth, even hurtful truth.

The count flinched at the reminder. His vocal quality deepened so it rumbled slightly in the leather-upholstered carriage. Erik knew without being told that his father had come to a line in the sand that he could not be pushed over. "Your mother loves you."

Erik drew in a breath, considering. Did she love him? Was there any maternal affection or had that flood dammed up as soon as she turned away from him as a babe? Or was her chill reception upon his return merely surprise?

As much as he longed to believe she still loved him, all he knew too well was his childish heart still adored her. His clearest childhood memory of his mother was of her blowing kisses across his belly until he screamed in delight. How old had he been then? Not old enough to understand the passage of time. Barely old enough to roll over in his crib.

He closed his eyes against the ache in his cheek and his soul. No, the last time she looked at him with affection, he had not even been able to roll over yet.

"You both went somewhere," Erik said softly. "When I was very young. You were gone for sometime and left me with my nurse."

His father looked confused and considered for a moment. "My mother died shortly after you were born. We had to tend to her affairs in Provaunce for several weeks. How could you possibly remember that?"

"Before you left was the last time my mother smiled at me."

The statement hung between them for several moments.

Erik's memory played back the first time he felt true rejection. The nurse had always covered his crib when he was not being attended, always averted her gaze from his face and avoided touching him if at all possible. His parents had never done that, but then they went away, leaving him to the dark, boring world where his only contact was the nurse's cold, rough-textured hands and disapproving air.

Then he'd heard his mother's voice again and no more beautiful sound had reached his ears. He'd screamed with infantile joy at her return, kicking until he could feel the crib sway with his effort. It was exhilarating. Life had returned to his lonely world. And the veil pulled back and there she was, beautiful beyond even his adult vocabulary to capture, even in memory. And she stood there, staring at him, not moving.

His joy turned to confusion when there was no cuddling, no kisses, not even a smile. She turned away and left him to his nurse. After that, he never left came before her without his face covered by some means, hiding his deformity from her sight.

It should not pain him all these years later.

"What else do you remember?" the count prompted

Erik's right eye burned as he leaned his head back. "I remember a trip, to Vienna, I believe, to see a doctor about my condition. The two of you argued during the carriage ride, on whether or not the man was as good as his reputation. Or it was surgery, I don't remember clearly. It seemed every visit to a doctor in those days caused you two to argue."

"You haven't seen a doctor since you were three –"

"This particular doctor dismissed Nurse, examined my face and chest and handed me to my mother. I remember this distinctly, you see, because she kept me at the very end of her knee and there were several times I nearly fell into the desk."

"I thought you were keenly interested in the desk's carved design."

Erik dismissed the thought with a gesture. "It was so badly constructed, I wasn't certain it would withstand the collision if I fell into it." He stopped before he said the rest, however: It was the last time my mother touched me.

His father shook his head. "It is impossible to remember something from that age."

"I assure you, sir, that I have done many impossible things in my life."

The carriage stopped. Erik returned his gaze out the window to see a large barn dominating the view. "And what business have we here?"

"I once promised you a team and couch for your majority, if you'll recall. It's time I made good that promise."

Erik's mind flashed to the many sketches he'd done as a child, filling page after page with designs for buildings, theaters stages, carriages, even the silver and gold inlays on the horses' tack. The designs had changed as he became a man, moving to things of an operatic and theatrical bent, but his passion for such things had never died. "A carriage of my own?" he repeated.

"I took the liberty of taking some of your designs to the finest carriage maker I could find. It's been finished for years, waiting for your return. And an appropriate team of horses, of course."

With his own rig, he would be free to move about as he chose. Even to leave Paris, as he'd originally planned. And no one to censor his movements, no limitations to the reasonable distance he could walk. The idea of such liberty was exhilarating. He gave his father an honest smile in gratitude.

The count's eyes teared. "Now to find the perfect horses. Black, I think, to match the lacquer. Two."

"You choose the midnight one, with the canvas roof?"

"It was the most striking, especially with the viscount's cote d' arms against it..."

Erik shook his head. "I am not the viscount and have no desire to take the title now."

"It's your by right. You are my heir."

"And, unlike my brother, I have patience to gain what should belong to me."

The footman opened the door, dropping the stairs for their descent. Erik allowed his father to exit first, flipping the hood of his cloak up to shield his face in public out of habit. His frequent trips to post notes taught him the wisdom of the hated act. It was not as beneficial as a mask, but it would do for the moment.

The heady mixed scents of horse flesh and manure filled his senses as they approached the door. It was a comforting aroma. The opera stables had been a favorite haunt as a boy, for horses and dogs cared nothing for the handsomeness of face when there were treats in hand. He had always been as welcomed, if not more so, than the next visitor.

There was a blessedly small crowd of buyers moving through the stables to inspect the animals for sale that morning. No one paid them any mind as they joined the milling around the stalls, allowing Erik to concentrate on the horses themselves and ignoring the throng entirely. Most every stall was filled with either a riding horse or a team, but he could not work up much enthusiasm over any of the animals his father pointed out to him

"DeChangy!"

Erik was surprised that the call made his head turn so easily. He had stopped thinking of himself by that name how many lifetimes ago?

The count greeted the caller jovially, shaking hands and grinning. The caller was accompanied by two other men, obviously a son and a grandson. The count addressed the middle generation, the one nearest Erik's own age. "You remember my son, Erik, don't you, Richemont?"

Erik looked at the man, unable to place the adult face with any childish one. Richemont offered his hand politely. "Unfortunately no, but I am pleased to make your acquaintance again, Monsieur le Viscount."

He eyed the hand, unaccustomed to the formality, then took it firmly before the man could withdraw. "'Monsieur' is quite enough of a title, if you please."

The grandfather chuckled at the statement. "You've been away, monsieur. May I ask where you traveled?"

How had he described it to Christine as he dragged her into the caverns a few days ago which already seemed like a lifetime? _Into Darkness deep as –_ "Hell, sir. I have just returned from Hell."

"Damned good thing you did then," Richemont commented. Erik braced himself for the witticism the man was about to grace them with. "Is it truly as hot there as is reported?"

The child snickered as the eldest members of their party grinned. Erik's memory provided an identity to go with the voice, finally, if not the name. One of the regular patrons of the Opera Populaire, Richemont was a devotee of La Carlotta and often sent her extravagant gifts and flowers on the opening and closing of shows. Erik's lip curled away from his teeth as Darkness fed off his distaste.

"In truth, monsieur, Hell is a quite comfortable indeed, though the operas would be far more to your liking."

The child snickered again, but this time his elders took insult. Tired of the intrusion and the social need for niceties to morons, Erik turned away to continue his inspection of the horses for sale.

It was not long before the count joined him, lifting the hood to look straight at him. "You should have bid them farewell, Son. It was rude."

"Yes," Erik agreed, without a bit of regret or apology. "It was."

To his surprise, there was nothing more said on the topic. No parental lecture on how a deChangy should conduct himself in public. No outrage at insulting old friends. The silence was not entirely comfortable, Erik was more than aware of the tension vibrating between them, but he saw no reason to apologize for acknowledging someone's bad taste.

Then the oddest thought occurred to Erik, one that he could not shake.

His father loved him.

In Maurice deChangy's eyes, he was not deformed. There was no difference between himself and Raoul, save that he'd been missing for more than twenty years.

It was too unbelievable to consider.

Except for the two whores in the gaol, everyone had shrunk away from looking at him, rude be damned.

Except his father. His father had always looked him in the eye and treated him like a person.

Absurd. There could be no truth to such wild imaginings. A day back at home and he'd gone back to the fantasizing boy he'd once been. It was ridiculous to think that way. He knew far better. Even Christine flinched a little when she saw his face.

There was one simple way to test the ludicrousness of the thought. Erik pulled the hood off and continued about his business, moving from the stall to stall. There were now more people about than when they'd first arrived. The well-bred folk quickly gave him a wide berth after the briefest of shuddering glances. Even the stable hands stepped back and openly lowered their heads rather than look him in the eye. That was the way it should be.

The count glanced at him. "I was wondering how soon that would become stifling."

The first time in his life Erik had been dumbfounded, he'd discovered himself a caged exhibit in a traveling show. This time, it was at the realization of parental love.

The fact that his father was completely oblivious to the conundrum just made all the more stunning.

"Have you found anything you like?" the count asked, without pausing. "I thought that pair in that third stall was rather worth noting."

The question gave Erik's mind something comfortable and external to focus on. Horses. "They're not a well-matched –"

A voice wove itself through all the chit-chatting and confusion around him, a voice Erik hadn't expected to hear again. Years of picking Christine's voice from the noise of the opera production served well.

Erik turned toward the back end of the barn, glancing quickly at the open, empty stalls there. He hadn't expected to find anyone there, the voice had an echoing quality that meant distances and near-solid separations between them. He opened the back door in time to hear the call again, shriller, more panicked. He strode out into the yard beyond.

"Son, you're not allowed –"

The call came from that smaller barn across the well-used yard. When the first voice was joined by a second one, shrieking, he ran.

The man-sized doorway was slightly open, so he eased himself through. A whip cracked and two horses protested. Erik's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the barn's interior faster than normal.

Two men stood at a stall partway down the length of the barn. One fingered something in his pocket, the other was far too dapper and delicate to be in a horse stable of this ilk. A third man stepped into the aisle as he pulled back for another crack of the whip, nearly falling when a pair of dark hooves flashed momentarily into sight.

"Devils!" Dapper proclaimed, falling back as well. "Impossible beasts! Completely controllable!"

Erik moved through the shadows, completely unnoticed by the three. Whip slammed the stall door shut, holding it as the steeds' upset crashed against and splintered the wood.

The man drew his hand from his pocket, revealing the flash of a pistol. "Well, if we can't sell 'em, might as well make 'em into dog food."

Dapper stuttered an incomprehensible protest.

Erik grabbed hold of the gunman's arm and the pistol, twisting in opposite directions. The man screamed, his knees buckling, but released the weapon. Whip drove in, tackling Erik's gut. Erik staggered, then slammed the pistol against the side of his head. He dropped to the ground silently. Erik straightened. Dapper had no fight in him.

Footsteps pounded up behind him. Erik turned, drawing the hammer down. The count drew up short, his hands coming up to shield himself. Erik turned the pistol on its owner, resting the muzzle against the man's head. "You like to kill things, monsieur?"

Dapper finally found his voice again, even though it was only a squeak. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Horse thievery is a capitol offense," Erik replied. The former gunman shifted, his eyes narrowed, his features flaring with anger, but his gaze remained hard. "I will be happy to serve out the sentence."

Behind him, hooves hit the stall door and the two horses within screamed in shared distress. Erik whistled sharply. The pair calmed immediately, one of them whickering in confused recognition. Erik allowed a small, hard smile to curl his lips.

"I—" Dapper stuttered badly. "I—they were trying to sell me the horses. I had nothing more to do with them."

"Then you can stand as a witness, monsieur," the count replied, his tone expecting obedience. Dapper nodded too much and made himself utterly dismissible.

"How do we know you're not a thief yourself, freak?" the gunman challenged.

Full Darkness lit Erik's smile. "Then you'd all be dead now and none the wiser for not finding your bodies." He shifted the gun slightly, urging the man to his feet and turned him to face one of the walls between the stall doors. A inclination of his head had Dapper scrambling to join the man. Erik stepped back and offered the pistol to his father. It was pleasing to see how steady the count held it on the pair.

Erik turned to the stall. The two Friesian geldings still stood quietly, though they hadn't settled from their previous fright. He whistled softly to them, reassuring them of his identity and presence. Only then did they calm completely. Cesar pressed his muzzle against Erik's chest, asking to be caressed. It was an easy request to grant. Antony required more stroking, but had never been as affectionate as his twin.

"I think," the count said, "we need the accoutrements."

Leaving his father to tend to those matters, Erik concentrated on the geldings themselves, running a hand over their bodies, both to soothe and inspect. Amazingly, they were completely unharmed from their exploits of the last few days. Antony snorted and shook his head, alerting Erik to someone's approach. He turned to find the stable hand who would've shot them standing in the doorway, bridles and leads in hand. He stepped forward to take them, passing through a stray stream of light.

The man's gaze slid over to the deformed side of his face, apparently noting it for the first time. Erik smiled to enhance his own ugliness. The man stumbled back, nearly tripping over his barely-moving companion.

The common response reassured Erik that the entire world had not been changed because of one man. Cesar nibbled at his coat pocket in search of treats, the eternal optimist. He rubbed the softness of his favorite's nose before slipping the bridle into place.

"Perhaps a finder's fee would be appropriate?" his father prompted.

Erik understood the purpose of the suggestion. Money in the hands' pockets would decrease the possibility of ill will and reports of theft in turn. A far more Light way of dealing with the situation than threatening or wounding them. Perhaps he should have thought of it, but in truth, he didn't think these men deserved any reward for their actions. "If they had truly been attempting to find the owners instead of making a behind-the-barn deal, I might be so inclined. But suit yourself, sir."

Without a word, he led the horses out of the confines of the stall, gracing Dapper and the stable hand with a glare he knew would wither weak souls. And they were both weak souls.

He waited near the entrance with the horses as his father finished whatever transaction he deemed necessary. The count joined them momentarily, pushing the door open and leading the way back to their carriage. There was no conversation until they were underway once again.

"Explain to me how those are your horses."

"Did I claim them as my own? I merely stated that it was thievery to have them." He waved a dismissive hand. "They were born in the opera stables. I watched them be born. I named them, Cesar and Antony. They are as much mine as they are anyone's."

"Cesar and Antony? You have an interest in Roman history?"

"The production at the time of their birth was Gioberti's _Cleopatra_. Their names mean nothing more."

"Have you no interests any more, Erik? Not at all?"

Flashes of the piles of gifts from his childhood interests gathered in his absence flashed through Erik's mind. Tokens of his father's continuing affection and belief in his return. Erik realized it was unfair of him to hold that part of himself apart from such generosity.

Yet, the knowledge of the impending flood of well-intended presents if he named any interests felt almost suffocating.

"Perhaps we should find an opera house for you to patron," his father mused. "Or would you prefer to take over the Populaire?"

That temptation dangled so close, Erik could feel it brush against his fingertips. To have undeniable control of the theater, the managers having to listen to his advice and demands without threats or dropping flies or sandbags... To be able to walk the boards rather than watch from the rafters... Having the power to actually fire incompetents rather than drive them out... The fantasy played quickly through his mind.

Then the thought of Firmin and André's faces when they discovered Raoul was no longer their patron flickered through his imagination.

"That is an enticing thought," Erik agreed.

Those simple words brightened his father's entire demeanor.

With all the struggling to remain in the Light, the small things were what gave him the most pleasure. Erik could not get over the strangeness of it all. The horses' greetings, his father's smile, all made his soul lighter than anything else he'd done since setting Christine free.

Was it coincidental that this was the first day he'd been alone with Christine again, interacting with her? Was such torture mandatory for this transformation?

Erik leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes. His face ached badly, his right eye burned under its lid.

"Son --" his father's voice was hesitant. "Your mother--is it possible that you'd consent to wearing a mask again? I promised I would ask on her behalf."

Peace came to his family when he was masked, he remembered that well enough. That was his goal, wasn't it? Living in Light.

"I have not yet had the opportunity to obtain a proper one."

"I'll be happy to arrange it --"

That generosity rising its head over him again. The moment of Light was gone, burned away in a flash of anger. "That is not necessary, sir. It is a matter I must tend to myself."

Erik felt suddenly exhausted.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Christine sorted through the dresses newly arrived from the seamstress, arranging the bounty on the bed. She didn't think she'd owned so many dresses in her entire life. It was like having her own private costume wardrobe. She smoothed the rich fabric flat against the bed, relishing the feel of it. Day dresses, dinner dresses, a few evening dresses. And underthings. She sank to the floor and opened the second box filled with linen and more lace than she'd seen off-stage in her entire life.

One pair of underpants were pure silk, the finest things she'd ever touched. She held them up in wonder, knowing she'd never dare to actually wear them. The lace, the pale blueness of the ribbons at the waistband and legs.

The door opened behind her. She quickly pushed it back into the box, her face flushing badly. Turning, she saw it was Danielle.

"Pardon, Miss. Let me tend those for you, Miss."

"What did she say?"

The maid picked up the first dress, a cream day dress trimmed in blue with the flowing sleeves Christine adored. "The madam agreed you should have tea with her this afternoon, Miss. In about an hour."

Christine's breath caught. It's what she'd wanted, what she needed to do, but how did one prepare to walk into the dragon's lair?

By dressing the part. She stood and looked at the assortment of dresses there. None of them were armor and sword, but they'd have to do. "What should I wear?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** In answer to the questions in the reviews: The answer--I plan to address all these matters, but not at this moment. Sorry to tease, but there's only so much I can fit into a single chapter at a time.

And now to tea with the dragon--errrr, Countess.

Chapter Nine

The small, immaculate garden protected behind the house had been Isabella's sanctuary since she'd become countess. It was a distinctly French garden, ordered and controlled, every rose, every blossom, every green stem and leaf growing in its own area. None of the overgrown mess the English called a garden on any of her properties, with beds running together and blending together. Everything in beauty had a place, and everything in her world would remain in its appropriate place.

The maid rolled out the tea service precisely on schedule, the tiny wheels of the cart clicking pleasantly over the stone pavers on its journey. Isabella remained still while the woman moved the silver pot and tray to the table covered in its pure white lace tablecloth. The china came next, set smoothly and deftly next to the service, cups nestled in their saucers, and the lovely containers of accompaniments.

Isabella appreciated the subtle grace it took to set a proper tea service and graced the maid with a nod of approval. The woman flushed, properly, curtsied and returned to the house.

The countess always enjoyed her tea privately.

In truth, tea was the only part of her past Isabella allowed herself to indulge now, the last remnants of her British mother's influence. The only non-vulgar thing from her childhood that she could pass along to her beautiful son.

Ah, the trials of that son. Of all the women he should have chosen…. Isabella did not glance up as the mouse who would become her daughter-in-law entered the garden. The girl was beautiful, but Isabella knew that Raoul could never be attracted by deformity. The boy had inherited all her finer senses and tastes, after all. She moved well, and her manners, as she gave a slight curtsy before seating herself, were impeccable. She'd even chosen an entirely appropriate frock for the event which flattered her slight figure perfectly.

None of this changed Isabella's desire to have her out of the house and away from her family immediately.

And the mouse had requested the opportunity herself. Isabella could not have arranged it any more beautifully.

Christine—yes, that was the mouse's name—looked about the garden, her eyes wide and wondering, as if she'd never seen such a thing before. Quite probably, she hadn't, given her life.

And this was the creature her gorgeous son wished to wed and carry on the family legacy with.

"It is very beautiful and serene here," Christine murmured. "Almost as if it wasn't part of the city."

Isabella gave the chit a smile and began to serve the tea, preparing it specifically according to proper standards, and handed it to her. Christine accepted it, holding it as Isabella served herself. "And to what do I owe this occasion, mademoiselle? Just a friendly little chat?"

"I actually wished to discuss something of the utmost importance, madam."

"Of course you do. Tea is always such a perfect time for such tete-a-tetes." The sarcasm of her tone was completely lost on the girl, as expected. In all honesty, Isabella was glad to have the matters out in the open. "I trust you will begin by telling me how much you adore my son."

The girl blinked in surprise, rudely staring at her. "Both of your sons are very special to me. Each in their own way."

"I am only interested in one." Beautiful, but totally incompetent to have an intelligent conversation with. Regrettable, but it was obviously the case. "What does Raoul mean to you, my dear? Is he your life?"

"He's very dear to me," she stammered after a moment, as if the question never occurred to her.

No surprise registered within the countess. It was almost disappointing. As much as her son adored this girl, there had been a lingering hope that it was a true love match. But no more.

Isabella sipped her tea and considered her options.

"I didn't ask to speak to you regarding Raoul, madam," the girl said quickly. Her voice was controlled, but Isabella could hear the quaver underlying it. "I wanted to discuss Erik's return."

Isabella covered her distaste with a sip of tea. "That is not a topic for polite discourse, my dear. I am far more interested in your intentions towards my son."

"Erik is also your son."

The countess fixed a gaze on the girl. "If you're merely here to be rude, child, then all civility ends now."

She took chastisement well, looking down into her cup, her lower lip quivering openly. Isabella smiled to herself. As always, she'd been right in her assessment. No one survives in the theater as innocent as this girl presented herself to be. Certainly, no innocent could unseat a veteran prima donna as La Carlotta Guidicelli. It simply was not possible. The girl played her part well, but Isabella knew all the tricks. She'd mastered them all long before this child's parents had been introduced.

"Let us be honest with each other," Isabella said, setting down her cup and saucer and leaning back in her chair. "What do you want from my son?"

It was as blatant an invitation to discuss money as she could issue. Isabella knew exactly how much she was willing to pay to free her gorgeous Raoul from this chorus parasite. What she didn't know was how much would be demanded and she'd rather have that out for discussion.

Being engaged to her handsome Maurice had been so much simpler. He had already been Count deChangy, in full control of his fortune and life, his mother but a squeak from the rocking chair. She, on the other hand, would never be relegated to such a humiliating position. And certainly not by the likes of Miss Christine Daaé.

"He asked me to marry him."

Isabella gave her a smile. Yes, the child knew how to play the game, but only at a beginner's level. It might be interesting to play this scene out a bit before revealing just how things would be. It would certainly relieve some of the afternoon's boredom while Raoul was off visiting friends.

"He is a very romantic boy," she agreed, "and quite has his heart set on being the dashing hero. I can understand why he'd inspire such thoughts in a girl such as yourself. How could anyone not fall in love with him?"

There. The tell-tale drop of the gaze in avoidance. The slight pursing of the lips against the truth. The slight stroking of the cup for reassurance. The girl was good, but she was no true prima donna and in complete command of herself at every moment. Isabella had seen what Christine did not wish to be seen: the nit did not love Raoul after all.

Good. It would make the entire transaction so much easier. Not to mention, this conversation so much more enjoyable.

"He is quite amazing," the mouse said. "Very brave. I—I wouldn't've thought anyone could be as brave as he is. To leap into the face of danger –"

"Ah, the stories a boy never tells his mother." Isabella smiled fondly, clearly displaying the fact that she had no interest in hearing any of the tales now. Christine looked confused, but understood and did not launch into a stirring tale of Raoul's daring-do. "You do realize, of course, that he doesn't really love you?"

Christine's brown eyes widened in well-played shock as the girl stared at her. "What do you mean."

"Raoul has always wanted to be the hero, my dear. You give him that opportunity to be your dashing rescuer. Yes, he will marry you to continue to protect you from whatever evil he perceives is threatening you. However, will he say infatuated with you when there is nothing more to rescue you from? Wives who cannot keep their husband's affections can be dismisses easily and summarily enough, often with quite a ruin to their reputation." Isabella gave her a small smile as she sipped her tea. "But, you're a chorus girl. You know all about the value of reputations."

"But he says he loves me."

"Raoul is a man of fleeting passions, my dear. He always has been."

"He's very passionate --"

"Until the passion runs its course," Isabella confirmed. "Which is always does."

The girl looked like she was going to cry. What a delightfully unexpected touch, worthy of respect. Isabella reminded herself that it was always the new players one had to watch for, since their moves were the most unpredictable.

"I don't believe you," Christine replied. Her voice nearly broke.

Isabelle regarded her opponent for a long moment, reconsidering her assessment. Young, a new player, but certainly not one to be discounted as she'd previously thought. Her desire to continue to play diminished greatly. She wanted nothing more than to end this session and have the world return to the serene beauty it had been for the last twenty years.

"If you truly care about Raoul, and your own future, my dear Christine, then you should give serious thought about your decisions in the next few days. At present, your reputation is questionable and borders on scandalous --"

"Excuse me!"

"Don't be so shocked. Look at it from Society's perspective, child. You step into La Carlotta's limelight in Hannibal and then mysteriously disappear and cannot appear the next performance. Then you receive the lead in what every paper proclaims the worst opera ever produced --"

"It was masterfully written, and badly produced on purpose."

"Do not correct me, Child."

"But you're wrong. You weren't there --"

Isabella straightened empirically. "This interview is at an end. Do leave now."

For the briefest moment, she thought the mouse was going to persist her point and stay, but Christine set down her cup and saucer and left as directed.

The countess drew a breath and sipped her tea again. No, this was not going to go as smoothly as she'd hoped. She might well have to take matters into her own hands before all was said and done.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Luncheon with his friends from the regiment had been relaxing, but Raoul found he was just as happy to be leaving their company afterward. It was good to see them, as always, however he no longer had any true connection to them. Their interests and concerns were no longer his, though they had been not that long ago. Some of his old comrades still wouldn't speak to him, believing his rich daddy had bought his retirement last spring. They couldn't understand that he could not pursue something his heart was no longer in.

He slowed the carriage as he entered the residential neighborhood his former commander lived in. The note requesting a meeting this afternoon had come as a surprise this morning, but it had been a welcome excuse to get away from the townhouse. Since the first time he took patronage of the Populaire, there had been no time to think, to consider. Since the fire, that's all there was time for.

Life would be so much simpler if Christine would simply marry him and they could move on, literally. Away from Paris. Away from his parents and his thrice-damned brother. He had interests and investments independent of his father's. They would not be rich, but he could easily provide a very comfortable life.

The neighborhood started looking vaguely familiar. Raoul started paying attention to the individual addresses to locate the right house and was pleased to find a place to settle his horses immediately outside.

It was a respectable house, by all standards, though nothing ostentatious. But, then that never would fit Perrault's personality. Colonel Georges Perrault was a stern man, and certainly not one for social niceties. The invitation had peaked his curiosity more than a desire to reminisce about the "good old days".

A maidservant opened the door, her face flushed with exertion, and gave him a small curtsy. Raoul handed over his card. The woman bobbed again and took him immediately back to the office rather than have him wait in the parlor. Perrault's getting-down-to-business attitude apparently extended into his home as well. Raoul wasn't surprised.

All through the house, there were signs of moving. Crates and trunks apparent in rooms, bright colorful squares in wallpaper showed where paintings had recently been removed. Apparently, the colonel had been reassigned, but Raoul didn't consider them close enough for a farewell summons. It was all very odd.

Perrault was a short, intense man, reminding many of the great emperor. Raoul thought Napoleon had more hair and smiled more often.

The colonel turned as the maid ushered him in and stepped out. "DeChangy. Good. I have a proposition for you."

"I'm honored you'd consider me, sir."

The office was smaller than Raoul's dressing room, and had already been partially packed, with one large trunk sitting next the bookcase, half filled. The general sense of emptiness echoed around them. Perrault offered Raoul the remaining chair and closed the trunk to use as his own seat. "You realize this is in strictest confidence."

Raoul glanced to be certain the door was closed as he nodded. "I understand, sir."

"I have accepted the commission of Commander General of The Ivory Coast."

The implications of that assignment didn't take long to register. "Quite a challenging assignment, sir. There's been no end to the unrest in the area."

"Yes, quite the challenge." Perrault regarded him. "I need an assistant I can trust. I want you."

Raoul couldn't help but sit back and consider that comment. "I've retired."

"I don't need a military man, deChangy. I can handle the military. I need a man who can deal with the military, and the businessmen, and who isn't bribable. That man is you."

Africa. It was a place he'd often daydreamed of exploring, that and the Antarctic. With the uprisings and the unrest, it would be constant challenge, danger, battle…. His heart pounded with excitement as it hadn't since he first discovered the existence of the Phantom of the Opera.

"I thought you'd appreciate the offer."

"Most assuredly. I'm more than honored for the consideration."

"But will you accept?"

"There are considerations. I'm engaged now."

"So I've heard, to the ingénue of the Opera Populaire. You and your bride will have a wing in my house, of course. She will have company from my wife and daughters. It's good for women to have the company of others during such times."

Raoul nodded, but his thoughts had moved beyond Christine to the actual proposition at hand. The strange new part of the world to experience, the rebels and smugglers. There could be encounters, deals to strike. Something new and challenging every day, not stagnant social after social. His mind's eye flitted over the possibilities he could think of, knowing his imagination would fall far shy of the truth. The simple fact that he knew he couldn't guess everything that could rise to meet him inspired far more interest.

"Should I be interested," Raoul said, "it seems that there is not much time."

"Orders never give time, sir." For all the harsh reminder of the words, the tone carried none of that weight. "The ship leaves Marseilles at the end of the month."

"That isn't even three weeks. I had envisions a month-long wedding trip –"

Perrault shrugged, clearly noting that the decision was not his.

But if they eloped quickly, then they could have several weeks and end in Marseilles... That was entirely possible.

"And when do you need my answer?" Raoul asked, standing.

"Immediately, if not sooner."

He considered that need then offered the colonel his hand in agreement.

Perrault smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Slipping through the shadows of the opera house was even easier now than it had been before. The sunshine pouring through the shattered dome ceiling of the audience did not reach this far backstage. Erik encountered no one, though heard the echoes of voices amidst the shadowed ruins and sooty cobwebs. There was a time where he would have been able to pinpoint locations with just that much noise, but the acoustics had changed too violently and he could no longer be certain.

The damage to the building had not been as extensive as he'd thought. Most of it had been confined to the area where the chandelier hit, the great curtains and most probably the upper levels where the flame had found the broken gas line. Erik picked his way over the rubble of fallen and burnt timbers, props, plaster molds and soot-encrusted costumes on his way to the prima donna's dressing room and the easiest access to his abode.

To his surprise, the doors had been removed from their hinges and stood against a wall. Many of the voices he'd heard before echoed from within the room. His chest tightened, knowing the only way any echo could come from even that spacious room was from the catacombs beyond. He stepped through the door to see what he expected: the mirror had been removed. The room itself had been undamaged by the blaze, but now stood filled with things he knew too well. People were looting his abode and gathering the spoils here. All the things he'd collected over the course of his existence beneath the opera house.

He caressed the horse and rider statue which had stood guard over his bed during the last remnants of his boyhood. Anger restricted his breathing. What right did anyone have to invade his domain? To remove his belongings? It went beyond insulting.

As haphazardly as everything was piled and dumped, it was impossible to know exactly what had been moved. Throwing his cloak over his shoulder, he searched through what was there in hopes of finding the most recent bust and his leather working kit. There were other things less important he would like to have, but the constant ache in his cheek now edged into pain.

Erik couldn't find what he wanted. The long black lacquered box was not to be seen, nor was the latest bust, though several of the older ones dotted the room. He straightened from the piles, irritation tingling his skin.

"Monster!"

Someone tackled him from behind, shoving him face-first into the pile. The items shifted, collapsing under the weight. Erik rolled, pushing his attacker to one side. He drove his elbow into the man's nose. The grip around his waist loosened.

Before he could get to his feet, someone else grabbed his arm and spun him around. Without thinking, Erik drove his fist into the man's gut. The man went down. Almost immediately, two others took his place, pinning Erik once again to the pile amidst hateful epitaphs.

Darkness over took him and he gave himself into its grip whole-heartedly.

Elbow swung up and hard into a face. A crack and the give of bone. Fist low into the gut. The stench of fresh urine.

Erik shook off the hands clutching his shoulder and rammed his head into his attacker's jaw. Free, he pushed himself back to his feet.

For the first time in days, he felt alive and powerful again, as he used to. It was a joyous sensation.

Pain radiated from the back of his head and the world went dim unexpectedly. Erik barely felt himself falling.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Christine finished her second circuit of the public rooms that morning, still surprised not to find Erik up and about. It seemed so lonely this morning without him. She settled in the breakfast room since she could hear some of the activity in the kitchen and the noises were reassuring.

It was all just another reminder how little she knew of her maestro and his life, even though she felt she knew him better than she knew anyone else here. Which, as she considered it, was a very odd note.

The butler brought her a cup of chocolate, which she thanked him for but didn't drink. Chocolate had always been a special treat, but no one thought anything much of it here. Living in the dormitory, she'd thought of how wonderful it would be to have her own room, to have no one snoring only an arm's length away. How wonderful it would be to sit at a formal dinner and have the meal served to you instead of the hectic chaos of filling a plate and trying to find a seat with friends. To have so much room to move, without the constant press of people all around her. To have any little whim fulfilled by an entire staff of people eager to serve.

It had been a pleasant daydream then, but it was a boring reality now. Only a few days, and she was already tired of it.

"No wonder they sleep 'til noon."

"Who sleeps 'til noon, darling?"

Christine startled, spilling chocolate into the saucer. Raoul deftly caught it before any could splash onto the pale yellow of her dress.

"I—I didn't expect you to be awake and stirring already."

Her fiancé set the drink aside and knelt beside her seat, holding her hand. It was such a romantic gesture, she couldn't help but smile at him. "We need to talk," he began.

"Yes, we do. Raoul, I need your help."

"Whatever you need, but I have my own matter we need to discuss this morning."

Christine hesitated. This was the moment to broach the subject of brotherly love, but now that she had it, she wasn't certain what words to use. "It's about Erik—Raoul, listen to me."

He paced away, his back straight, his gait rigid.

But he didn't interrupt.

She stood, coming up behind him and putting her hands on his arm. The muscles beneath the linen sleeve were taunt. "There's been enough harm done in this family, Raoul. It's time to do something right. It would mean so very much to me if you would accept him back."

He drew in a deep breath. "After all he's done, you can ask that?"

"He only acted when he was ignored. Or provoked. It was only after La Carlotta's voice began to slip and she refused to retire. And when you and the new managers began baiting him --"

"Christine." He caught her arms, stilling her protest before her voice raised any higher. "Perhaps we--I made a mistake in those choices, but I swear that I did not know he was my brother at the start. If I had--If I had, it would have worked out differently. I swear."

"Then why won't you make him welcome?"

"Because --" He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "If you want me to welcome him, I will. I'll kiss his ugly cheek in public--if you marry me first."

"But of course," she stammered. "We're engaged --"

"No, I mean today." He captured her hands and squeezed them. "I have a golden opportunity, Christine. A position out of the country, and it leaves at the end of the month. You know how I've always wanted to take you to see Sweden, Vienna. I promised you that. If we're going to have that opportunity, we have to leave immediately."

She pulled her hands away, looking around the room as if guidance for this surprise hide in the lace eyelets or the colors of the wallpaper. "I don't know what to say --"

"Think of it," he continued. "Just the two of us, away from Paris, away from my family. A new start. We can get married on the shore we met on, all those years ago. Isn't that what we've always wanted? Little Lottie?"

She winced at the childish endearment, but he was right. There was no reason to postpone the wedding any longer. And if Raoul embraced his brother afterward, the countess could not but do the same. It was the perfect answer and fulfilled all her obligations.

"Yes."

"Yes?" he repeated. His beautiful face split into the largest grin she'd ever beheld. He gathered her against him and kissed her heartily. "You've made me the happiest man in the world, Christine. I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to make you as happy as I am right now."

What frightened her most is that she believed him.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Erik's head pounded, his senses strangely groggy as they hadn't been since he was a boy in the circus. He was vaguely aware that they bound his hands behind his back, but his attempts to stop them were futile. Several hands jerked him to his feet. He locked his knees so he would not stumble or fall and forced his throbbing head to lift, his gaze to sweep the room. It was hard to get his eyes to focus, however.

"What do we have here?"

The authoritative voice stopped the aggressions and gave Erik something to concentrate his full attention on to clear his mind. The man standing in the mirror-entrance was his age, his gendarme uniform soaked to mid-thigh. More men stood behind them, several of them with their arms laden with loot. The sight of his belongings curled back his lips in a snarl.

"The Phantom of the opera," one of the men holding him declared.

"Are you certain?" The officer's face came into sharp focus as he stepped forward and snatched Erik's hood away from his face. "The man I saw on that stage was far uglier than this. What is your name, monsieur?"

The shock of almost being called good-looking stunned him into a moment's silence. "I am Erik deChangy." The name felt odd coming from his lips after all this time of being the Opera Ghost, yet it was his to claim. "My family patronizes this opera house."

"DeChangy," the officer repeated, obviously not believing him.

"Raoul deChangy is the patron here," the bold bastard to his right declared. "No Erik's ever shown his face before."

"With a face like that, why would he?" someone behind him added.

Recognition of voices made his head pound worse, men who used to plot with Buquet on how to capture and kill him. Erik closed his eyes against the combined pain. Darkness danced at the edge of his nerves, promising the strength if he wanted it, the thrill of the daring escape he'd experienced so many times before. He bit back the desire to tap into that reserve. The Light seemed so very distant, barely a hint of memory, but he clung to the quiet flickering.

"If you do not believe me," he said, "my carriage is at the stable doors. My driver will identify me."

The officer made a gesture and someone brushed past and out the door. "If you are lying, monsieur, you will not see the light of day until you hang."

Darkness curdled the edge of Erik's smile. "If I go to gaol for this offense again, sir, the deChangys will own Paris and I will relish you licking my ass clean every night."

The man's sharp laugh betrayed his insecurity. Satisfied, Erik relaxed his stance for the wait and discovered the straps about his wrist were actually looser than before. It would be no effort at all to slip his hands free and escape into the shadows. He let the bindings slip off his hands, but held them tight so no one was the wiser of his release.

Workers behind the officer started unloading their arms of the boxes and bundles they'd carried up from his abode. The officer watched Erik closely to see his reaction to the items, openly suspicious of his story. If he seemed too interested, what would be the cost?

Darkness demanded that he trounce them all and make his escape. Necessity just wanted his tools and form to make a new mask since he obviously would not be able to claim any already found without raising new suspicions. The powerlessness of necessity made his soul ache for the freedom and power he'd once enjoyed just moments ago, but no more. For once, Darkness had failed him. He should not have slipped from the precipice of Light.

"The driver, lieutenant," someone announced from behind him. "And the carriage does bear the crest of the deChangy."

The men holding Erik started to turn him around, but stopped at a signal from the gendarme officer. "Describe your employer to us."

Erik could clearly hear the flabbergasted tone in the servant's voice. "My employer, sir, is the Count deChangy, but I drove his eldest son here this morning. He is tall, like the Count, and just as striking, though the right side of his face is—unfortunate."

The lieutenant frowned openly. Erik smiled pleasantly as he shrugged out of the grasps and handed the gendarme the still-knotted restraints. The stagehands shuffled back quickly, now afraid, but Erik did not glance at them. He didn't need to, to know where and who they were. Even more, he was certain they knew that.

"My apologies, Monsieur le Viscount," the lieutenant said with a half-bow. "I can see why you would be mistaken for the notorious Phantom of the opera."

"Monsieur deChangy suits me well enough. My brother Raoul is Viscount. I have patience."

The officer frowned, obviously not understanding the insult to his brother. "We expected that the fiend would return for some of his belongings and was prepared. May I ask your interest in being here?"

Pure Puckishness inspired the words that came to mind. "I thought it would be amusing to see something of this Phantom of the opera I've been accused of being. I think I'm rather owed after all the treatment I've received at official hands recently."

It was an olive branch, of sorts, and the gendarme officer recognized it. The unspoken gentlemen's agreement that humoring the noble would result in no charges, no grievances and no further remembrance. But that would mean humoring the nobleman. The small conflict made the man's cheek twitch strongly.

Yet, Erik knew it would be impossible for him to refuse. Though nobility did not count much in France since the Revolution, wealth still did and the deChangys had both.

"Very well, monsieur. I will have one of my men escort you to the Phantom's lair." He paused as the two of them regarded each other. "Do restrict your souvenirs."

Erik chuckled. "To only what my carriage can carry, of course."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the reviews. They're a great inspiration to keep going. I hope you enjoy what's to come--we're far from finished yet.

Chapter Eleven

"This is just so romantic!"

Antoinette Giry closed her eyes in mild pain at her daughter's nineteenth repetition of the phrase. "I am very pleased that you remembered to come for her, _petite_," she told Christine. For a blushing bride, her fosterling didn't seem half as giddy and happy as Meg did for her. It was a sharp contract to the excited girl she remembered whispering the news about her engagement to them not so long ago. "Go and pack what you can, Meg. We shouldn't beg on the viscount's generosity too much."

"It is no burden whatsoever," DeChangy replied with every bit of graciousness she expected from him.

She gave him a polite smile, but her daughter bustled off as instructed. She met Christine's gaze and the girl lowered her lashes for a moment. Both girls knew her too well to not understand that she wanted to speak with Christine alone for a few moments.

"Raoul," Christine said, "it would be nice if we didn't leave on an empty stomach. Would you go to the corner shop for a little something to tide us over, please?"

To his credit, he was not fooled by the request, but agreed and left. Antoinette patted the seat next to her on the settee. Christine sat, but did not look at her directly.

"Tell me this will make you happy."

"He is a wonderful man, everything a girl could dream of in a husband. How could I not be happy?"

She took the girl's chin in her hand and turned her face toward her. Antoinette carefully pitched her voice to be more teasing than chastising. "When was the last time you could lie to me?"

An embarrassed smile graced Christine's lips. "Never."

"Then tell me the truth, _petite._ If you are not desperately in love, why?"

"It might not be desperate, but I do love him. He is the dearest man I think I'll ever meet. And this marriage fulfills so many obligations--I can't not do it."

Antoinette took her hand. "Obligations are not the reason to marry. Marriage is for a lifetime and obligations that inspire such things rarely are. I want you to think seriously about this before you say the vows. Promise me that."

The girl nodded and lowered her eyes again. She'd get no more out of Christine on that subject.

"So, where are you taking my daughter off to? Someplace I might enjoy as well?"

"Raoul wants to be married on the beach where we met. You're more than welcome if you'd like to come."

"Ah, the sea air and my joints have not gotten along in years, _merci._ I will leave you to my daughter's excitement. I think that will be quite enough company for the entire journey. Why don't you help her pack?"

Excused, Christine hurried into the other room, nearly running into Meg when she opened the door too quickly. Both girls yipped in surprise then hurried into the bedroom and shut the door.

Antoinette could not help but smile at the two of them. Friends so close, they might as well be sisters. It was very good that Christine would not have to face this change in her life alone, with only a husband at her side.

The viscount returned not much later with only one meal and an apology and a promise he would make certain both Christine and Meg were well-fed during the trip. Antoinette wished them well and let them go, standing by the window to watch the carriage roll down the street.

There had been a time when she'd thought this marriage was the best possible thing for all concerned. It would grant Christine a better life with the man she adored and would end Erik's destructive obsession with the girl. The chorus would survive without a single dancer, it always had before, and life would go on as it always had.

Now she knew that was not the case at all.

Strangely enough, her thoughts flew not to Christine's future but to Erik's. But, then, her thoughts often centered on Erik since the newspapers reported his arrest and subsequent release the following day.

After years of protecting him, she'd yielded to a moment's anger and loss and betrayed his complete trust. She'd never broken her word before, not in her entire life. If this twisting in her gut and constant desire to cry was the result, she never would again.

And now his obsession, the woman he had sacrificed everything for had left with his rival. Antoinette felt certain that Erik knew nothing of the elopement. She owed him that information, at least. And an apology for her weakness. It might not make up for her previous betrayal, but she had to at least offer it to him. And Christine never asked her not to tell anyone, so she would not be guilty of another betrayal of a confidence.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Maurice deChangy read through the scrawled note once again. He should take comfort in the fact that Erik left a note saying he would be out most of the day. That his son had given some thought to his father's worry that he'd disappeared yet again, but he couldn't. He could only stare at the childish handwriting and see his own failure to protect his son all those years ago.

He paced the floor of his office, as he had so often over the last twenty years, his mind searching for new avenues to solve these new problems. Erik was his eldest, his heir. Raoul might keep the minor title of viscount, but Erik would someday be the count and control the vast deChangy fortunes and business interests. The plain reminder of the horrid state of his education brought all doubts and fears to the fore. So many years focused on finding his son, he'd never given any thought to the consequences of success.

The clock striking two in the afternoon resounded through the hallway. Maurice frowned. The owners-managers of the Opera Populaire were due any moment for a discussion of the opera's future. He had wanted Erik present to introduce them to their new patron. It would be a good test to see how Erik handled responsibility and financial decisions, after all.

But his son was gone again.

As always, Fermin and André were punctual, knocking at the door shortly after the last bong's echo died from the room. At least it was something constructive to concentrate on.

"Have my son escorted in upon his return," he instructed the doorman as the gentlemen were shown in. A deep breath, and he was ready to talk business. He was certain what he had to say to them would surprise them greatly.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Isabella relaxed in her garden after breakfast, glad to have the sanctuary from her husband's relentless pacing once again. The one good thing she thought would come out of their son's return would be the end of the infernal pacing, but it wasn't. She adored her husband, but these times drove her to distraction.

However, a carriage pulling up behind her garden spoiled her relaxation. She frowned. Whatever delivery man it was would have the contract cancelled immediately for this disturbance.

Feet hit the cobblestones and then Erik's voice quietly instructing the driver. Isabella straightened in her chair, listening despite the sound of his voice making her stomach cramp. "Stack it in my rooms. Do not allow either the count or the countess to see these things. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

His fast steps crunched the gravel along the servants' pathway to the kitchen door and entered without even a hesitation to come in through the door off her sunroom. Her eldest son was a cretin beyond all comprehension. It would be far better for the family if he had never returned. Unfortunately, she saw no way to remedy that situation.

Isabella rose to follow him and correct his error. Family members did not come and go through the servants' entrance. It simply could not be tolerated. If he would not simply leave again, the least he could do was not embarrass the family in front of the hired help.

She made her way into the hallway. Erik stood in the foyer, outside the open doors of his father's office. "As you see, gentlemen," Maurice's voice filled the room, "my son and heir is quite willing to support my decision to restore the theater to its former glory."

Neither of the managers looked particularly enthused about this turn of events, but both were also savvy enough not to protest her husband's generosity. Isabella could not see Erik's face at all to note his expression, but she could imagine the evil grin that inspired the managers' pale expression.

"Ah, my dear." Maurice gave her a fond smile in greeting. "You gentlemen remember my wife."

"Madam la Countess," the managers murmured, almost in chorus, as they gave her polite bows. Erik did nothing to acknowledge her arrival. She gave them all a nod and the expected smile, but saved her ire for when the visitors were gone. She understood proprieties, even if her son refused to.

"My dear, if you would be as kind as to see Monsieurs Fermin and André to the door. I have a few matters to discuss with our son."

_As do I. _She inclined her head again. The men, even her wayward son, stepped back to allow her to pass into the foyer and escort the former rubbish merchants to the front door. "I'm so glad something could be worked out, gentlemen," she said. "It would be the greatest of shames if the Opera Populaire was no more."

"You and your husband are most gracious, madam," André said. "But –"

"But?" she prompted politely.

"I'm certain everything will work out to everyone's satisfaction," Fermin said in his partner's hesitation. "Madam."

The doorman stood ready with their canes and hats, freeing her from the drudgery of actually seeing them out the door. She glided back to her husband's office door.

"Simple atrocious!" Maurice declared, smacking a piece of paper with his free hand. "We must get you tutors to improve your penmanship."

Erik looked completely nonplused by the berating. "Thank you, sir, for finally noting that I am not perfection incarnate."

A maid got to the door before Isabella did. "Excuse me, Monsieur Erik, but there has been a woman waiting some time to see you. She gave her name as 'Gretel'."

The look on the handsome side of his face became very guarded. If anything, his deformity increased with the expression. Isabella shivered and turned away to keep from seeing it. Impossible to believe that something so hideous could come from her own body. The very thought made her ill again. It kept her still as Erik swept past her, down the hallway toward the parlor.

Maurice came to her side, taking hold of her arm. "Are you all right, my dear?"

Isabella drew in a trembling breath. "Did you talk to him?"

"About the mask? Yes. He was quite agreeable, but such things do take time. I have every faith he will tend to it." He kissed her hand. "Perhaps you should go lie down."

She nodded, allowing him to retreat back into his office and close the door as was his custom. Isabella turned and walked quietly down the hallway, pausing at the half-open parlor door to discover who this 'Gretel' was and what business she might have with Erik.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

All those years ago, after his escape from the circus, Erik had not trusted his savior with his name. For all that she had sheltered and protected him, after the abuse his name invoked by his family's own servant, he couldn't do it again. In his youthful pain, he wanted to forget that name had ever been his. Antoinette quickly decided that she would call him "Hansel" after the fairy tale about the sister who rescued her brother from the witch's cage before being roasted for dinner. In turn, he'd taken to calling her Gretel in their private moments.

That had faded as they reached adulthood, and he'd confessed his real name, but the brother-sister names had always remained as an odd endearment between them.

Antoinette Giry stood in the middle of the room, straight and strong as he'd always known her to be. The Darkness reminded him that his capture the night of the fire had to have been at her word, that she had betrayed him. She turned to look at him. Her guilt was clear in the pinched lines in her face, the circles beneath her eyes, the way her voice quivered when she finally said, "I am so sorry."

He stopped and regarded her. "For?"

"For not believing you, all these years. For not encouraging you to seek out your family. For telling them where to find you."

Now was the time to lash out and strike her down. He could see her expectation of his renown temper, her steeling against his outburst. The very fact she expected it raised his ire more than any sins against him.

Yet, in all these years, he had never raged against his Gretel.

"I would not change the life I have lived." Her gaze was disbelieving. He stepped closer so he could cup her cheek in his hand. "If I had left, I would not have you as my sister. And are you so certain that I did not wish to be found that night?"

She took his hand in hers, tears welling in her eyes. "I never wanted you in gaol, Erik. I –"

He put his thumb over her lips to still the words. "So you came to apologize."

"And to tell you –" She hesitated. It was very odd to see her so uncertain of herself, she who ruled countless dancers over the years with an iron will. "Christine and the viscount came for Meg this morning. She fulfilled their girlhood vow."

Erik had been there, in the ever-present shadows, when the girls exchanged the agreement that one would never marry without the other at her side. The feeling in his chest thickened to the point, it was hard to breathe. "When?"

"Mid-morning. They were on their way to the train station." She squeezed his hand. "There could be time to stop them, a train tonight to Perros --"

"No!" Erik turned away.

Lightness demanded that Christine leave him, that she find her happiness beyond the constant threat of his Darkness. Raoul would save her. She deserved to be safe. He had to cling to the slippery belief that this was the right thing to do just a little longer. One more day, then it would be said, done.

For the first time in his long memory, he felt sick enough to take to his bed but knew he could not.

Outside, in the hallway, he heard the scrap of a foot and a body lightly falling against the wall. He stepped towards the door without thinking, his own step barely a whisper.

"—Damned worthless whore--no…." His mother's voice trailed off.

But those words were more than enough.

Erik sprang out of the door and caught the woman's throat in one hand. Her eyes widened. She got out a short scream of surprise before his grip cut it off.

"You will never speak of Christine in those terms again." He enunciated distinctly so his words pierced through the growl enough to be understood. "Not a word. Not a thought. I will know if you do. And I will kill you."

"Erik!" the mixed chorus of Antoinette and his father's voices did nothing to dull the fury within in. His focus was on the pale face above his hand. His mother's fingers clawed at his arms.

He not release her until he saw clearly in her eyes that she understood it was not an idle threat.

Darkness raged within him, demanding the insult be paid in full. He turned and walked away without a word to anyone. His entire body trembled, the sickness churning in the pit of his stomach.

He might have to let Christine go to give her her happiness, but there was only so much he could bear.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Maurice watched in horror as his beloved son dangled Isabella from his fist like an errant kitten. Erik seemed deaf to all protests. Maurice doubted his wife was going to survive the encounter when she was suddenly dropped and he turned away.

The woman, Gretel, moved quickly to his wife's side. Isabella brushed her attentions aside and grasped his jacket. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came from her gasping lips.

He needed no words from her to grasp what must have happened. His wife's disapproval of Raoul's engagement had been a sore spot for months. He'd just been informed that Raoul and the girl had left early that morning, before the household rose, and had not been back since. Now this outburst.

Erik loved the girl as well, yet he was willing to sacrifice his love--for what reason? Maurice couldn't imagine why Erik would do such a thing for the little brother he'd only insulted and dismissed since his return.

There was something more, and he would not allow this to happen until he understood it. He turned on Gretel. "Where did they go?"

She looked confused as he took hold of her arms and gave her a sharp shake to bring her to her senses. "Where did they go?"

"Why?"

"So I can stop the damned wedding."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** Thank you for all the comments! What a lovely start to a new writing day.

And, gentle readers, just so you know: stopping this wedding isn't the climax or the end of the story. Realizing which man she truly wants doesn't mean that he's hers for the asking. What would be the fun of that?

Chapter Twelve

Her wedding day.

The day most girls dream of, fantasize the details, giggle over with friends. Now that the day had dawned, Christine was not certain if she wanted time to move on or not. Her stomach knotted so unpleasantly, she couldn't eat the simple breakfast served. Meg kept smiling at her. Somehow her friend had gotten all the excitement over the day. Christine found she just wanted it over with.

As she got dressed, she wondered what her Angel's reaction had been to the news. Surely someone must have told him that they'd gone. It wouldn't be hard to figure out why. She knew with a cold certainty that he would understand immediately. Had he raged? Had he been resigned? This was what he'd wanted for her, after all. This was what she knew she needed to do.

After all the years of people sacrificing for her, it was about time she gave back, after all.

"You're entirely too quiet," Meg teased her as her friend fussed with her dress and hair. "Are you thinking of your oh-so-handsome groom and your wedding night?"

Christine felt her cheeks heat and her eyes go wide as she focused on Meg's teasing expression. She'd given no thought at all to the wedding night, to having to make love with Raoul. He'd never pressed beyond kisses throughout their engagements, telling her it would be better to wait until the wedding. She understood his concern—a child too early in the marriage was more of a scandal than he wanted to bear, and they had scandal enough as it was.

But now, there would be no reason not to. As his wife, his viscountess, she would be obligated.

"Christine." Meg took her hand, concern lighting her dark eyes. "Why aren't you happy?"

She forced a smile. "I—I think it's all just happening too quickly, now that it's happening. And to be here again, with all the memories haunting –"

"You're not haunted by memories," Meg interrupted. "You're troubled by today. I know what you look like when you're haunted."

"This is a perfect dream. Of course I'm happy. Why wouldn't I be happy?"

Meg made a face like she'd just bitten into a disliked candy. "Perhaps you're thinking of a certain masked tutor?"

"Marguerite Giry! How dare you suggest such a thing!"

Her friend winced a little at the use of her full given name. "Don't try to change the subject. You've spent too much of the last year thinking about him."

There was so much bile in her friend's voice, there was nothing Christine could say to the accusation.

"You shouldn't be marrying one man if another occupies your thoughts," Meg continued. "This isn't the Dark Ages, after all. If you don't love him –"

"Stop!" Christine bolted out of her seat and across the room. "Just—stop."

The room fell quiet after her outburst, giving her time to staunch the tears and refocus on all the good that would come out of this marriage. It was the only thing she could do.

A knock nearly shattered the silent moment. Both girls startled and looked at the door guiltily.

"Christine?" Raoul called. "Meg? Are you ready? The magistrate is waiting outside."

Meg looked at her, her eyes large and pleading. Christine swallowed hard, as if that could dismiss all the doubts and reservations, and moved to open the door. It took every bit of showmanship she possessed to give him a dazzling smile. "All ready. Meg, my hat?"

The silence between herself and her almost-sister was almost tactile as Meg set her hat on her head with a rap of her knuckle through the crown. Christine winced slightly, but Meg only continued her pleading look. She turned back to Raoul's broad, happy grin. It was so much better to get lost in his joy to get her through this day.

She just wasn't certain that would be enough.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

"Have you heard anything yet, my dear?"

Maurice did not look up from the morning mail at his wife's repeated question. "Has there been a messenger yet?"

There was a moment's pause before a dissatisfied "No."

"I have alerted the authorities, my dear," he continued, picking up the embossed opener to lift the seal of the first letter. "Follow Erik's example and practice patience. Before I lose mine."

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Christine took a deep breath as she walked down to the beach with Raoul. He talked and pointed, trying to confirm the exact spot she'd been when the wind had carried her scarf into the ocean. It had been a memory she'd held dear for many years, but now she could not recall the scene if her life depended on it.

Yet, he wanted a response from her and she found herself agreeing to someplace that couldn't possibly, but was a pleasant enough place for a ceremony. Meg murmured the expected "It's lovely" even as the sea wind blew all the hair into her face. Christine looked over the area she'd loved so well as a child and felt as if she'd never seen it before in her life.

They stopped before the magistrate, a middle-aged man who looked as if he hadn't slept in the last seven years because of a on-going head cold. He gave her a smile and wiped his eyes. "Shall we proceed then?"

Without a church, the words were a simple affair. Christine wanted the world to slow down, to give her a few last moments to herself before she made this commitment, but it wasn't to be.

Raoul took her hands for the exchange of vows. She looked into his handsome face. A face she trusted. Eyes that always danced when they looked at her. His pleasant mouth, so often smiling. This was what she had to do. It fulfilled her long-ago promise to marry him. It would help her Angel gain his proper place in his family. Everyone gained.

But her.

"Do you, monsieur, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the magistrate wheezed.

Everyone had always given to her. It was time to give back. It was time to sacrifice.

"I do," Raoul intoned, making the simple words a solemn vow she knew was etched into his heart and soul.

"Do you, mademoiselle, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Christine looked at Raoul as the magistrate continued the ritual. Could she speak those words so the vow etched into her heart and soul too? Was it fair to say them if she couldn't?

The magistrate paused, waiting for her to say those two words. Simple words. She'd sung much more complex words how many times in rehearsal? Said harder things in casual conversation?

But there was nothing casual about this. This was what she had to do, it was right, it was necessary.

She was scared it was all a mistake.

She felt the tears fill her eyes and turned away, trying hard not to cry.

The countess was right. She didn't love Raoul. Not the way he deserved to be. He was a trusted friend, but that was all. That wasn't enough to build an entire life on.

Raoul handed her his handkerchief to wipe her face, his smile proving that he thought he understood the reason for them. So thoughtful, so kind and loving. So very much not the man she wanted.

"I'm sorry." The words choked out so badly, no one understood her. Except Meg. Her sister-friend's sharp intake of breath told her that.

"Mademoiselle?" the magistrate said, repeating his prompt for her agreement.

"Excuse me," a man flanked by several uniformed gendarmes called. "Either one of you gentlemen Raoul deChangy?"

Christine turned toward them, flabbergasted, then looked back at Raoul, frightened, then oddly relieved that she couldn't be forced into an answer.

Yet.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** My thanks, gentle readers, for your patience while a nasty summer cold sapped all energy and creativity. I do promise that I will finish the tale.

Chapter Thirteen

"Where is he?" Raoul demanded as he walked through the open door of the Parisian townhouse. Every servant stepped back at the sharp tone of his voice.

Someone squeaked, "Who?"

"My brother," he snarled.

"The kitchen, monsieur."

Raoul turned down the hallway, leaving the door open for Christine to follow. At least one maid dived out of the way of his advance, nearly knocking over a table and vase in her haste. The door banged against the wall as he entered.

The sweltering heat combined with the stench of wet cowhide halted his step, his thoughts and his breath. His eyes watered in self-defense. He nearly had to leave the room for the smell. As he turned, he caught sight of the erstwhile Phantom sitting on a bench beside the old Rumford fireplace.

Wiping his eyes, he strode forward, refusing to be turned aside by a mere stink. "You haven't won, you know."

Erik did not look up from the cauldron of bubbling water he tended. "And what game have I been playing?"

"Convincing Father to stop the wedding and have us escorted back. It won't work."

The Phantom said nothing as he took tongs and flipped whatever was in the boiling water over. The stench of wet cowhide assailed his nose again. Raoul looked away and saw the misshapen bust of a man's head--even more disfigured than his brother--sitting on the bench, along with a long black lacquered box sitting beside it.

When he looked back, Erik regarded him evenly. "I assure you, if I had been the one to disrupt your nuptials, I would not have relied on someone else to tend to it."

Raoul frowned at the simplistic statement. In his few previous encounters, Erik had always done his own deeds. But who else had he to act in his stead? No one that Raoul could think of. The man had been with the family less than a week. Such command was second nature to the rest of the deChangy.

How removed was Erik from such an ease of rightful station? The thought had never occurred before. It seemed so very odd to even have to consider it. Madame Giry had assured him that the Phantom knew nothing else of the world but the opera house, which meant she, or someone else, had tended his business outside. Was she wrong, or was he lying?

Erik flipped open the lacquered box to reveal an assortment of odd wooden instruments and knives and one sealed jar, then picked up the bust and placed the base between his knees. With practiced ease, he plucked the boiled leather from the cauldron, shook off the excess water and applied it to the warped side of the bust's face.

Raoul felt like an idiot, not realizing what the process was. He could think of no one else that could be trusted for such a task, after all.

With small wooden paddle-like spoons, Erik worked the leather smooth over the form. "Is that all you wished to discuss with me?"

"If you did not do it, then who did?"

"Either of our parents, I would suspect. Both were there when the news came."

"And where did the news come from."

The twisted side of his face grew fearsome as he smiled. "Gretel."

"Who in Hell is Gretel? There's no one by that name --"

Erik met his gaze evenly, straightening from his work. "Are you certain of that?"

"Damn you. You know I can't be."

"Not every dancer in the chorus wished Christine well in your affections. There was a great deal of jealousy abounding. It was also no secret that society, and your parents, were less than happy with your selection." He smiled again. "And you thought she wished to keep the engagement secret only from me. She knew there were no secrets from me."

Raoul paused. No, the thought had never occurred to him. The chorus had always seemed like such a happy, almost family-like group. But, then, his own family was ripe with disagreements and jealousies. The opera had always seemed so beyond such petty things, though.

Erik continued to work the leather tight against the face of the bust, no longer looking at him. Once satisfied with its form, he held it near the heat of the fire.

"That is far more hideous than you are."

The words fell from Raoul's mouth before he realized the thought. He expected some sign of the infamous temper, or some cutting remark, but all Erik replied was: "It is good of you to notice, but it is not supposed to be my face exactly."

"Then, what --?"

After testing the leather, Erik carefully peeled it from the form, cradling it in one hand. Raoul stepped forward to see the detail of the interior in the flickering firelight. "It is all in the structure," Erik explained. "The weight pulls my eye open, which can cause infection. This device not only supports the growth and allows my eye to close normally. This configuration," he indicated the shape of the nose piece and additional bits that looked pointless, "allows it to stay securely in place without being tied."

_He is an architect and designer, a composer and a magician. A genius, monsieur, a genius!_ Madame Giry's summary of the Phantom echoed in his mind suddenly. At the time, it was easy to dismiss such a claim, but now, seeing the ingenuity of the design of a simple mask and the mastery of craftsmanship going into its creation, Raoul found himself wondering if she hadn't been right.

Erik extracted a curve bladed knife from the box and started cutting away the access leather as Raoul continued to watch. It was an odd moment, one that should have happened decades ago, when Raoul was a young boy watching his elder brother do something with youthful fascination and awe.

Raoul straightened at that thought. He would not--never would be in 'awe' of this man. Never. The very thought was absurd.

"I will marry Christine." In the odd silence, the statement sounded far flatter than he'd intended.

"If you recall, I was the one who sent the two of you away to do just that."

"You changed your mind before."

The knife paused in its work for a tell-tale moment, though Erik did not look away from the mask. "My dedication to her happiness has not altered, have no fear."

"Father will discern that you are a monster, you know. I will delight in exposing your insanity to all."

The Phantom chuckled, something Raoul hadn't consider him being able to do. "I assure you, monsieur, that I am not presently insane. I could, once again, slip into the Darkness. If I do, there will be no doubt of it in anyone's mind that it has happened."

The assurance sent a shiver down Raoul's spine and he stepped away.

"You could leave again," Raoul suggested. "Use your many talents, all the money you extorted over the years, and establish yourself elsewhere."

"And you could marry Christine and establish yourself elsewhere."

"We tried that."

"Don't stop for witnesses."

Raoul scowled at the stiff but matter-of-fact manner of the advice. "Why do you want to help us?"

Erik looked at him out of the corner of his over-exposed eye and gave a grotesque smile. "You cannot accept that I merely wish you well?"

"No."

"Then live in the company of your own assumptions."

He turned his full attention to carving the eye hole from the white leather.

Raoul did not like the feeling of being summarily dismissed, even though he'd come to the end of the topic he'd wanted to confront Erik about. He didn't believe the man's protestation of innocence, not at all. The Phantom had never been anything but devious and malicious from the beginning. There was no reason to believe otherwise now. Raoul could see no reason the man would have had a total change of heart since they'd met.

He left, turning down the hallway. There other things more pressing. He had to talk to Christine and reaffirm their decision, make new plans, leave in the morning, at the latest. Or see if he could owe her the honeymoon.

Why did love have to be so damned complicated?

He climbed the stairs then listened at Christine's door, expecting to hear her explaining all that had happened to her maid. There was no noise within at all. He opened the door to find the room pristine, no sign of Christine or the trunk she'd taken yesterday. There wasn't even a sign of her maid about to tend the room.

Swearing under his breath, he went to the stairs and called for the doorman. Charbonneau appeared at the foot. "May I help you, sir?"

"My fiancée, where is she?"

"She declined to come in, sir. She left you a note, which I sent to your chambers."

Raoul scowled and turned toward his room. Too damned complicated, and Christine was doing nothing at all to help.

He found the promised note sitting on his bureau. It was unsealed, which meant every servant who'd handled it probably read the news and knew more than he did. He'd have to talk to her about that. Even his insane brother knew better.

_Dearest Raoul,_

_After some thought, I think it best if I stay with the Girys until we talk again._

_Most sincerely,_

_Christine_

"What is this nonsense?" He folded the note and tucked it into his jacket's inner pocket. "Has the world gone insane?"

Now to get his carriage and go fetch her. He had half a mind to just keep driving afterward and never come back. It would serve them all right.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

For once, Meg didn't pester with questions about whether or not she was certain of her decision. Instead, her friend held her hand the entire trip from the townhouse to the boarding house where the Girys were staying. "We always wanted to have a room all to ourselves," Meg offered.

It was the little endearments like that which kept Christine's hopes from floundering too badly against the fears of what she'd done. She wasn't certain when Raoul would get her note, but she had little doubt that she'd soon be receiving him as soon as he did.

She had to be ready for him.

She didn't want to. Not yet.

Meg and Mme. Giry would shield her, as best they could, but she knew it would be a matter of a day, at most, perhaps hours before they weakened. She didn't want to put her friends through the trouble.

Honestly, though, Christine saw no other choice. Living with his family meant that she was beholden to them for her very existence. She didn't fool herself to think that she wasn't still living on their largesse as a performer for the Opera Populaire, but at least that was something she had honestly earned herself. Not something she was being given because she was engaged to Raoul.

The carriage arrived too soon and not soon enough for her tastes. Fellow dancers gathered in the parlor, surprised to see them back already. "What happened?" Jeanette demanded.

Meg looked at Christine, uncertain. "I --" Her voice caught. Somehow she couldn't look at those smug expressions and admit that gendarmes sent by his family had interrupted the wedding. It didn't even sound right to say that she'd stopped it, when she hadn't really. She'd only been very relieved when it happened.

Still, she had to save face in the glare of such expectations. Years of performance gave her the ability to laugh at them. "Whatever did you think we were doing?"

The other dancers stared at her in utter disbelief. Christine started up the stairs, leading Meg and the footman bringing their trunks up. Meg giggled as they reached the landing. "You did that so well! I couldn't ever be that smooth, especially around Jeanette. She's always so snoopy."

Christine waited as Meg fumbled with the key. "I learned it from watching her, actually."

The girls walked in on one of the most common sights of their girlhood: Mme. Giry at dancing practice. The easy grace and beauty of the woman's movements was a pinnacle of perfection Christine could never achieve. Meg had the chance, but Christine knew she, herself would never achieve it.

But, then, her heart had never been in dance.

Mme. Giry finished the move and looked over to them, surprise flickering in her expression before her normal calm took over. "Back so soon?"

The servant put the trunks against the wall, bowed and left them alone. It wasn't long enough for Christine to think how to explain what happened. Meg just looked at her. "Do you want us here when he arrives?"

"Christine?" Mme. Giry called her attention away. "You are not married, then."

"No. Gendarmes arrived and stopped it." Christine sighed. "I'm actually glad they did. It would've been a mistake to go through it."

Meg looked smug. "I told you so."

"And you were right, but I'm not sure for the reason you said. I have to have time to think. I've had no time."

"Then we will give you time," Mme. Giry replied as she went into the other room. The girls could do little but follow her. The woman opened a drawer, took out her purse and extracted several coins. "Go and get some supper. I will be here when the viscount calls."

Meg reached for the money, but Christine caught her arm. "No. I will only truly get what I want if I talk to him now and make him understand. The two of you should go. I'll be all right."

It took a little convincing, probably more time that she could really afford, before Mme. Giry changed her clothes and mother and daughter left her alone. Christine went to the window to watch them leave and continued to stare out at the street, her mind blank even as the viscount's carriage stopped once again outside the building.

She'd had time and had not thought, and now the time had come. She wanted it over with, she wanted him to understand.

But she had no hint of what to say, even when his knock rattled the door in its frame.

"Christine," Raoul's voice carried into the room. "Open the door."

She rose. It felt like she was moving through molasses, but she couldn't bring herself to walk any faster. Somehow, though, she opened the door before he could pound on it again. "Do come in, Raoul."

Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears, but he gave her a dazzling smile that only told her that he didn't hear the same forced politeness she did.

"I'd offer you refreshments," she began.

"Which of these trunks are yours?" he interrupted.

Christine turned to look at him. He'd hardly come in the door and stood, looking at the two small trunks. "What?"

"We're leaving again. Surely, you don't think this is the end of it."

"Yes. Yes, Raoul, it is. I can't marry you."

She might as well have smacked him, his expression was so stunned, then hurt. "You can't be serious." He crossed over to her, capturing her hands. "Just because my family doesn't approve means nothing. I have my own money –"

"No, it's not your family. It's not the money." She pulled her hands away, unconsciously wiping them on her skirt. Having him close made it harder. Him touching her made it nearly impossible. "Raoul—" She wanted a pre-written script, something timeless and guaranteed to make him understand, but there was nothing of the sort. "I can't marry you."

"What of your promise? Of our agreement?"

Marriage in exchange for his public acceptance of his brother. Christine closed her eyes against tears of failure and turned away. Maybe she was too selfish, but she couldn't keep that agreement. Not even for Erik.

"Why?" Raoul pressed.

She looked through her own welling tears at the sweet concern on his handsome face, the confusion in his eyes. "Because I don't love you enough."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! Of course you love me."

"Yes, I love you, but as a friend." She licked her lips, but that didn't stop the trembling. He needed to understand, but he didn't deserve the brutal honesty of the reason. But she saw no other choice. The longer he stayed and talked, the more likely he was to overwhelm her thinking and convince her again. She couldn't make that mistake. Not with something as important as marriage. "I don't want to go to bed with you, Raoul. I don't want to go off on your adventure to the Ivory Coast, or anywhere else. I want to stay with the opera, even if it's as a chorus girl."

There. She'd said it. For better or worse, she'd spoken her mind.

Raoul stepped back and sank down to perch on the edge of a table, staring into nothing for the longest time.

Christine didn't dare move until he blinked and looked at her.

"Do you want to go to bed with him?" he asked quietly.

She looked away, but did not feel a rise of a blush on her cheeks. In all her dreamings of Erik, there'd been kissing, wondering about touching, but did she want to have sex with him? Just the question brought a warmth to her body that she'd never had before, though Raoul had held her in his arms, kissed her so often. Only when she realized that she truly wanted her Angel in a very carnal way did her cheeks warm. She put her hands over them more in surprise than to hide the blush.

"How can you forget all he's done?" Raoul prowled over to her, looming. "How frightened you were. How you begged me to take you away, to hide you. Have you forgotten what a monster he is? Living in my parents' house has not changed him in the least. He almost killed my mother just last night."

Her eyes widened. "You're making that up!"

"I was informed as I waited for a cab to summoned. Maman has refused to be in his presence again, not that I blame her.

"What did she do to him?"

"What?!"

Christine bit her lip, not realizing she'd asked the question aloud until she heard the words. She couldn't back down, not now. "The Angel of Music never attacked anyone without cause, ever."

"Buquet –"

"—Hunted him. Everyone in the theater knew that. And Mme. Giry warned him, countless times, that it would get him killed. And it did. And, frankly, I think he deserved it for being stupid."

"Piangi –"

"—Wasn't killed, just attacked. But he could have been killed, easily," she finished for him again, her voice stronger with her conviction. "And if he hadn't done that, your silly plan would have never stood a chance against him. Especially since you insisted on sitting in box five."

"How can you take his side?"

"How can you hate him so?" Christine swallowed hard, but the words in her mind tumbled from her lips in the heat of the moment. "Or are you truly as shallow as your mother and only care that someone's beautiful?"

His eyes narrowed, his face flushed. "Do you really believe that of me?"

Whatever had lent her the moment of insane bravery now fled before that gaze. She lowered her eyes, quickly shaking her head. "No, I don't."

They stood in silence for several beats. Christine drew in a deep breath, not sure what what to say now.

"Christine," He took her chin in his hand, his voice no longer angry. She looked at him, searching for some hint as to what would happen next, but still couldn't guess. "You know I love you, that I would never hurt you. Believe me when I say that I talked to Erik not an hour ago and he told me, himself, that he wanted us married."

"I don't believe you."

"Didn't he tell you to leave with me? I swear to you, he doesn't want you."

She studied him, and couldn't read his face. "I want to hear it from his own lips."

"Then you'll stop this foolishness and marry me?"

"I--I don't know. But I--I need to talk to him."

"I'll take you."

Christine stood fast even as Raoul stepped toward the door. "And you'll see that I come back when I've finished."

Insult flared through his face, drawing his jaw tight and lifting his chin, but he nodded. "My word on it."

"I have to leave them a note."

She'd hurt Raoul, deeply, and she didn't like it, but she saw no other choice. Better to be honest now then spend a lifetime in growing misery if she didn't "grow to love him".

She just hoped it hadn't been a mistake.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** Merci! Merci! I hope this lives up to growing expectations. I know it's becoming a fun challenge.

Chapter Fourteen

To Christine's surprise, Erik was standing on the porch of the townhouse when they arrived. He looked as he had the first time she'd seen him: splendidly dressed, with dark hair and a perfect white mask covering the distorted side of his face. He was pulling black gloves on as they stopped. His posture made it impossible to tell if he'd taken note of them or not.

She slid off the horse's rump and approached before Raoul could dismount. "Maes--Erik?"

Her Angel turned to her, the handsome side of his face even more stunning against the stark white of the new, but familiar, mask.

It was totally unbecoming to run up to him, but she did. She wanted to talk to him before Raoul could simply spout out the questions he hoped would trap her into marriage. This had to be her decision, and no one else's. For once, people were going to listen to her.

Erik inclined his head to her, his next word cold and deflating. "Viscountess."

"No." The strength of her tone drew a measure of surprise in the depths of his eyes. She wanted to take hold of his jacket front and pull his lips down for a kiss, but the return of his mask also set up reserves she dared not challenge. "No, it's just Christine. We have to talk."

He looked past her to where she could hear Raoul's boots striking the pavement. She took hold of Erik's arm, silently demanding he talk to her privately. Those depthless eyes rested on her a moment as the sound of a carriage pulling up echoed in the stillness.

"My carriage awaits."

A simple, grand gesture to indicate the sleek carriage with the Count deChangy's personal crest on the doors. "Yours?" she repeated as he took her elbow and escorted her to the curb.

The driver held the door open for her as she climbed in. The seats were soft to the touch, filling the compartment with the rich scent of aged leather though there was no sign of wear. The black canvas roof stretched overhead, lightly dotted by studs, so it gave the quick impression of a starry night. The carriage was finely decorated without appearing gauche. So very like her Angel.

He settled in the seat across from her, shutting the door on Raoul's protest. The driver got the carriage in motion immediately, as if the man recognized this was a rescue of sorts.

"Merci." The small thanks fell into the abyss of his silence. Christine glanced away, the hated uncertainty taking her words prisoner once more. She felt his expectation and looked up to meet his gaze.

The depths of his eyes were troubled, even stormy. So easy to get lost in.

She knew from years of experience, that he would wait silently until she found voice for her concern. He was not a man who spoke simply to fill silence.

"I can't marry Raoul," she finally said. She clenched her hands tightly together in her lap, as if that touch would save her from drowning in his eyes.

"But you love him." His tone almost made it a question instead of a statement of her feelings.

Christine couldn't hide the pain she felt from her face. "But I don't want him."

Erik said nothing more, withdrawing from her despite the fact he didn't move.

The carriage rolled on in silence for several blocks. Christine glanced out the window, but didn't know the neighborhood well enough to guess where Erik had ordered the carriage to take him. When she'd gotten in, she hadn't cared. She'd just wanted to get away from Raoul for this discussion. Except, there was no discussion.

"It was easier to talk to you in the chapel," she said with a sigh.

His gaze flicked over to her, but did not stay. "When I was unseen, unknown."

"When I could believe that you were listening."

His mouth quirked, but she couldn't tell if it was with a smile or a scowl. "I have always heard you, Christine. Have no doubt of that."

There was something ominous about his tone that caught her attention. What had he heard? When? How extensive had his realm been, behind the scenes, maybe inside the very walls of the theater?

She looked him with wondering eyes, once again uncertain who this man was and what he was capable of. This man she wanted in her life more than any other.

That was the raw, naked truth of it. She could easily imagine her life without Raoul, even without the opera or music, but not without him. His influence, his being there was the most important thing she knew. For all Raoul's assurances that he'd accept his brother, they would still move far away and she wouldn't have contact with Erik again.

That was the thing she couldn't bear.

She licked her lips, the magnitude of the realization hitting her. Looking at his distant, removed expression, how was she going to manage this?

"Raoul said you wanted us to be married. Is that true?"

"That is what you wanted."

"But it's not what I want."

"And what has changed in just a matter of days? For months, you've been devoted to him. You've betrayed me for him."

"I'm sorry--I didn't want to --"

"But you did." That was hard statement of fact, even she couldn't deny. "You chose him over me --"

"I--I was frightened," she admitted. "I hadn't thought you capable of violence."

"And the viscount is so much better a man because he will not directly put his hand to violence."

She thought about all the little "tricks" that had plagued production over the last several years. Falling backdrops, such as the one that hit La Carlotta the day M. Lefevre announced his retirement. Malfunctioning props. Collapsing sets. Injuries had always been minor and only those who'd missed their marks had been hurt. No one had ever been killed, though most everyone feared for their lives.

Everyone except herself, and Mme. Giry.

Yet when Raoul concocted a plan, he'd brought in over a hundred armed gendarmes into the theater stationed everywhere--in the audience, the boxes, even in the wings, so they were in everyone's way--with the intent to shoot the Phantom, should he appear. How many innocent people could've been killed if Erik hadn't chosen to appear on stage and surprise them all?

And it had been Raoul to had a naked blade when he arrived at her father's tomb, though Erik had jumped into the fray, literally, with weapon draw.

They both had violent streaks. She couldn't hold it against one and not the other and she wouldn't hold it again both.

"You're right," she admitted finally. "That's not fair. But--you still didn't answer my question. Do you want me to marry Raoul?"

"What I want is your happiness. Do what will make you happy."

What would make her happy? She could think of one thing she wanted right now, and since she had his blessing...

She leaned over to kiss him, despite the mask, despite his aloofness. Their very first kiss had taken him by surprise. More importantly, she'd gotten a glimpse into the man behind the mask and violence. He was too unreadable again. She wanted that insight, to know him solely as a man again.

Erik caught her shoulder, holding her a breath away from kissing him.

"Why?"

The one word was more accusatory than questioning. Christine allowed the motion of the carriage's turn and uphill climb to sit her back into her seat. She stared at him for a long time, not knowing how to respond. "You said to do what I want."

"And why would you want to?"

"I want you."

"Do you think I didn't see your whisper to him, moments before you 'chose' me?"

"I—I didn't think about it," she admitted.

"What am I to believe?"

"What I say, now."

"Over what you will say next week?"

"That's not fair! I was confused then."

"And you are not now?" The carriage stopped. Erik threw open the door and took hold of her wrist, pulling her after him as he jumped out. She stumbled, but he held onto her. The smell of old smoke filled her nose and brought tears to her eyes.

Blinking against the bright afternoon sun, she looked up at the front entrance to the Opera Populaire. "What are we --"

He dragged her up the steps and through the great double doors. The grand foyer was dirty with large piles of debris, but nothing barred their way to the managers' office. He dragged her past them, under one of the ruins of the many staircases and pulled open one of the wall panels, as if it were a door. Before she could say anything, he pushed her inside and stepped into the tight space with her, shutting them in.

Even in the pitch blackness, he took her hand and led her down the tight passage with unerring accuracy, warning her when they came to steps and low overhangs that she could not even guess were there until he opened another door into the plaster shop. Soot and long dark cobwebs covered everything, but he wove between the intact moulds to another hidden doorway, ducking in without a second thought. All the years she'd lived in the theater, it had never occurred to her that this secret world existed beside the one she knew so well.

As they climbed higher, the cloying smell of the fire dissipated. The afternoon air smelled pleasantly warm and a soft breeze made its way down the stairs. Sunlight brightened as they turned a corner and suddenly she found herself next to one of the shattered round windows on the top floor of the building. The wall on one side was gone, and she could see the remains of a dressing area and the burnt hull of the dormitory beyond.

Erik did not pause, but knocked away the remaining shards of glass still clinging to the window frame before lifting her out onto the rooftop. Christine stepped away, looking around in amazement. Damage to the roof littered the area with debris, and the door she normally used lay against the back of the Nike, but the statuary themselves were undamaged. He pulled her to a spot along the side walkway and stood her there.

"Here, you pledged your undying love for him," Erik said. "As long as he protected you from the evil of me. Wasn't that your agreement?"

She looked around the area, confused. "How could you --?" The answer came almost as soon as the words tumbled from her lips. "You were here."

"I called to you. You heard me, and chose him."

She had heard his voice call her name. She remembered the moment of confusion, and then Raoul's pledge to keep her safe. "You were here."

"Everything I am," he said quietly, "was darkness and ugly. Only the music meant anything to you. I heard you say it."

"No, that's not all --"

"It would have been a punishment. I know now it was a punishment, not the joy I originally thought I offered you."

Christine looked up to see he'd stepped away, turning his back to her for the first time. "I chose you." He paused, but didn't turn back around. "When you demanded it, I chose you."

"After one last pledge of love to him." His voice was flat. Christine was beginning to believe that was defensive, so he would not betray his own emotions. "You chose me to save his life because that is the choice I gave you."

Erik turned to look at her. "I was--am that monster you painted me to be. Everything I have ever done has been cursed and damned. All that I've been accused of, and more, I stand guilty. Yet you say that is what you wish now. I want to know why."

It was his eyes that showed her the depth of his inner suffering. He would never openly admit that her words had wounded him far more than his disfigurement ever had, yet she could see how the echoes of her words haunted him. Suddenly, it was so obvious to her in the stiffness of his stance, the very formal way he held his arms and looked at her.

It wasn't just the mask, as she'd thought in the carriage. He rescued her because she'd wanted to be, as he always had been there for her. But the few times he'd offered her more of himself, she'd refused him.

Her chest ached in empathy for how horrible even she had treated him without knowing it. "You're not a monster." She risked a step closer. He didn't retreat. "You're my Angel of Music. My maestro." She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. "My friend."

He turned again, his steps crunching glass beneath as he moved to stand before the rearing pegasus. He stood totally still with his head slightly bowed, only the slight breeze stirring the hem of his cloak.

Christine approached slowly, so her steps did not make noise. "That night, I was angry with the managers for denying me the roles I was due because they thought I was Raoul's mistress. I was upset because they'd wooed La Carlotta back and gave me the title role of _Il Muto_, but I thought myself professional enough to put in a good performance. You taught me to take every role seriously and create perfection with it. I could do no less."

If she reached out, she would touch him, but she didn't dare. If he looked at her now, she might now finish the confession of what lead to the promises she'd made to Raoul that night.

"I hated La Carlotta for being desperate or spiteful enough to come back. Secretly, I wanted you to do something to embarrass them all that night. And you did. I got the role I deserved and I was glad. It was petty and vengeful, and I didn't care in those few minutes.

"And then Buquet fell."

"And you were afraid of me."

"I was afraid of you," she agreed tentatively, "because you always fulfilled my dreams. I know that Buquet watched me. I know he hunted you. But--good girls don't wish bad things, even on bad people."

"What happened to him was deserved."

"Yes, and when I saw him collapsing to the stage, all the pleasure I'd gotten out of winning felt very ugly. I didn't want to near it. I--I was weak and ran."

"And took the viscount to protect him."

Christine looked down at her hands. "Raoul is a childhood friend. When life was different, when Father was still alive. I--I didn't want him tainted by all the things I felt guilty about. And when he asked what was wrong, why I ran--I didn't understand myself well enough to tell him the truth. I didn't even realize what the truth was until the train ride back to Paris."

"And so you made promises you no longer intend to keep." He turned to face her now.

"I wanted time to think. I've almost never had time to think when I most want it. That night was one. I thought that being up here would be enough, that Raoul wouldn't intrude." Erik made a disgusted sound. "I know that now, how his constant reassurances were only to convince me of what he wanted me to think, to feel. I didn't realize that until we escaped the fire. I don't think I truly got the chance until yesterday, when he was so upset."

"With me."

"I never thought it was you, honestly. I always thought it was the countess."

"You would not be far from wrong."

She reached out, touching the wide expanse of his back. His muscles were taunt beneath her fingertips. "What I realized is that while Raoul will always have a special place as my childhood friend, I don't want him as a lover." Fear at the next honesty gripped her heart.

"I want you."

He half-turned so her hand rested on his arm. He didn't need to speak for her to know he didn't believe her.

"You want me," he repeated, his voice low, almost a growl. Christine swallowed again, but nodded, afraid to look away from him again. "Show me. Now."

"Now?" Her voice nearly squeaked. "Here?" She looked around the debris and broken glass. "Where?"

Erik stepped away, looking around but swinging quickly back to the rear of the pegasus statue. Sweeping off his cape, he stepped up onto the balustrade and draped his cloak over the stone back.

"Here."


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **My thanks for your faith, gentle readers. I promised from the beginning there would be Romance-novel level sex scene and here one is. After all, I think Erik and Christine deserve nothing less. Hopefully, you'll agree.

Chapter Fifteen

_Run,_ Erik silently urged her. _See the Darkness for what it is. Save yourself._

He stood motionless, waiting for her to realize the danger they were both in. He knew the feel of the Darkness embracing him far too well, but she should be afraid. She should step back from the demand, slap his face, do something in refusal.

Instead, she stood there, staring at him with her eyes large and vulnerable. It would not take much to press her into obeying his will, one gesture—just a kiss, and she would utterly be his. He knew it instinctively.

And possessing her would destroy her utterly. He knew that too.

Yet, she didn't turn away from the outrageous demand. She eyed the back of the statue for a long moment.

"What if someone sees us?" Her voice barely quivered with apprehension.

"Ashamed?" The Darkness deepened his voice, revealing the depth of his desire in its huskiness.

She shivered and glanced away.

Erik tensed in anticipation. She would step back now, refuse, and they would be free.

Instead, she stepped forward, reaching up to cradle his face with her hands. He caught her wrists out of reflex because she reached for his mask. Her look of confusion told him too plainly that she would not be dissuaded with merely a demand for an odd, impractical location. No, Darkness had gotten a hold of her, his Angel of Light, his sweet Christine. To simply refuse would not teach her to recognize the danger for herself. He wanted her to refuse on her own.

He studied her for a moment and moved away, still holding her wrists tenderly. "Disrobe."

She drew her hands back, her surprise clear in her wide eyes.

A small smile of triumph tugged at his lips. Yes, she would refuse that demand. She understood they stood on the edge of a knife at this moment.

Christine pulled up her skirts, bending over, and slide two fingers into her boot. Erik's chest tightened, uncertain of her actions. She straightened and extended a button hook. "I need help."

He took the tool, staring at it in disbelief. She turned, pulling the dark, curling veil of her hair over her shoulder, out of the way of the long row of buttons down her back. He'd seen how far a dress had to be unbuttoned before it could be pulled off thousands of times as he watched dress rehearsals from the rafters. Almost against his will, his hands took to the task, quickly popping buttons from their tiny hoops with all the efficiency of a wardrobe mistress. There were times his dexterity frightened even him.

As soon as the dress was loose enough, Christine gathered the skirt and lifted the dress over her head, dropping it to one side. Erik stood there, holding the button hook, staring as she divested herself of more bits of clothing than he even knew names for. Layers of cloth piled atop the shards of glass on the rooftop until she stood only in her chemise, underdrawers, stockings and boots.

Now breathing was difficult. He'd never been a particularly lustful man, but he felt the undeniable heaviness. He stepped closer to her back so he could see her profile.

The quick rise and fall of her breasts against the linen betrayed her nervousness, but the tight peaks betrayed her excitement far more. She turned her face to him, watching him. Her lips softened and parted in silent invitation even he, in his inexperience, could not mistake. "Sometimes I think about _Point of No Return_," she said softly. "How you took my hands and touched me. Everyone could see, and—is it so bad that I wanted them to see?"

The button hook slipped from his fingers and fell among the discarded clothes so it made barely a sound. Christine paused, her lips slightly parted, her expression open and vulnerable. Erik caught his breath, staring at the vision so close and inviting his kiss.

"Those were the most erotic words I've ever spoken," she continued. Her hands shook slightly as she loosed his necktie. "Past all thought of right or wrong," she recited the words, his words, more lyrical now for being nearly whispered than sung. "One final question: How long should we two wait before we're one?"

The tie dangled loose down his chest and it suddenly weighed too much for him to breathe. Her fingers worked on the buttons of his vest as she continued the recital. "When will the blood begin to race? The sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames, at last, consume us?"

Christine rested her hands against his chest and felt how fast his heart pounded, the first sign she had that he was not as calm as he pretended to be. She looked up at his stoic, guarded expression. It was not just his mask that hid his feelings. It was the very person he became when he wore the white leather. A man once removed from expression. She wanted to strip it all away, so he was as open to her as he had been after their stage debut.

"You wrote those words for me—but only to sing or was that what you wanted with me? That's what I don't know."

When she raised her hand, he caught it and kissed her fingertips. She stretched up to kiss his lips. His hands moved to her shoulders, holding her for the briefest moment. It was clear in his eyes that he might set her aside, refusing her. She curled her fingers into his clothing, negating the question.

Then she was tight against his body, his mouth covering hers, taking command of it. She gave herself over to him completely.

This wasn't a kiss like they shared before, no. That one in the moat had been tentative in comparison. Raw hunger underscored the movement of their mouths, the driving need to taste, to experience, to possess the other. She could feel the rise of his interest press against her belly. It only made the longing inside her more intense. There was nothing that needed stop them from fulfilling it. No more excuses, no hesitations.

Darkness had them both firmly. It was no longer easy for Erik to simply give himself over to the raw pleasure of the sensations. He cared, perhaps too much, but he relished the taste of her, the feel of her tight against his body. This was something he'd craved but ever been afraid of having. She molded against him eagerly. The only impedance was his mask, but she did not reach for it again.

Erik lost himself to kisses, to the heat of her body, to the raging desire rising in response. There was no thinking until his lungs screamed for air. Agony had a new definition as he parted from her.

Somehow, they'd moved from where they'd been standing. Now, she was pressed up against the back legs of the pegasus, clinging sweetly to him. Her head rested against his shoulder as they both caught their breath.

She slipped her hand into the open neckline of his shirt, touching bare skin. Her fingers splayed over his chest, lightly playing over the hair. Her touch burned through his flesh, straight to his heart. It was an experience unlike any Erik had ever had before. One he didn't want to end quickly.

In spite of himself, his muscles tensed as she trailed her fingers down over his stomach, then was gone. After a moment, her fingers fumbled with his belt. He gasped as her touch brushed against his crotch.

It would be so easy to simply allow her to open his trousers and take her where they stood. He'd seen it done hundreds of times in the theater--couples rutting like animals, seeking momentarily pleasure. His belt came free, and he caught her hand before anything more became loose. She deserved more than rutting.

The rare couple sought privacy, took their time. Erik had never gotten a full look into any of those special trysts, but he knew that was love and not rutting. Rutting was Darkness, but trysting was Light. Christine deserved as much Light as he could bring into this union.

She looked up at him, uncertain, slightly frightened, seeking direction.

He'd already assessed the roof for possibilities that were not covered with glass and debris, that were somewhat private, and his cloak still lay there. His bold-faced challenge was still the best choice. And if he gave her less than what he'd dared her to do, it would be disgraceful.

Not for Christine.

Erik shrugged off his jacket and vest, letting them drop. Her eyes followed the falling cloth, then fixed on his chest. Her lips parted, asking for a kiss, but he merely brushed a fingertip against them before pulling his shirt free of his belt and carefully lifting that over his head.

She made a small sound as he dropped the shirt, reaching up to stroke his revealed body. He knew she'd seen bared chests before. Her heat seared through him again and he tried to brace himself against melting.

"You're so—beautiful," she whispered.

For the first time in his long memory, he felt he could agree with the preposterous statement.

Dark desire gnawed at his resolve for Light. He grasped her around the waist and lifted her onto the statue's haunches. She looked at him in surprise, but a glance behind her revealed his cloak and the chosen spot. Her breathing quickened, pressing her breasts temptingly against the thin fabric of the chemise. As he kicked off his boots, she watched as enraptured as if he were the star on stage.

Christine could not take her eyes off him as he undressed. Her entire body tingled and ached as it never had before.

This was real. It was going to happen. All the private fantasies would soon be reality. It was thrilling. It was frightening. She'd never been so excited in her entire life.

In a moment, he would be bare, and she still had clothing on. Reason pulled her thoughts away from what would come to her last part in making it come true. She pulled off her shoes and tucked them in the crook of a wing then pulled her chemise over her head. The spring breeze kissed her bare skin and made her shiver. Her nipples tightened, making her breasts ache oddly. Her hair fluttered over them, teasing them lightly as she looked back at him. He'd straightened from removing his trousers and now glided to join her.

She moved back to give him room. He rose to kneel on the statue's haunches, naked but for his mask.

Her gaze moved over his body, so muscular and powerful and far more sculptured and perfect than she'd imagined possible for a man to be. Truly more angel than man, but such a devilish angel as a very lecherous smile parted his lips.

The sight of him transfixed her where she sat as he reached for her, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. His fingers curled around the back of her neck, pulling her forward for a kiss. This time, her hands touched bare shoulders and neck, feeling the lengths of muscles beneath directly instead of through teasing layers of clothing. Her chin tapped the edge of his mask. She pulled away, taking hold of the edge of the smooth leather. His objection was clear in his eyes, the sudden tightness of his jaw.

"Nothing between us."

In her fantasies, he had always said those words, but Christine found it didn't matter now from whose lips they fell. She half-turned to set his mask with her shoes. He brushed her hair back and kissed along the length of her neck. Laying back against the statue, she gave herself over to the sensation of his lips against her skin, trailing along her neck, her shoulder. She gasped as he kissed her breast.

Touching herself had never felt this exquisite. The way his tongue explored her nipple, teased it, raised far more delicious excitement than her fingers had ever managed. She held on to his shoulder, the back of his neck, not wanting him to stop.

Erik raised his head, however, and shifted so her hands trailed down his arms. She looked at him, at the open desire on the one side and the thoughtful desire on the other. His attention was focused down her body. She followed his gaze and then shivered as he started untying her under-wear and slid it down over her hips.

Lifting her hips brushed the inside of her thighs against his bare skin. She'd always thought it would feel naughty, but if feeling totally alive was naughty, she never wanted to feel like a good girl again.

He took away the last of her clothing and settled between her knees. Christine traced her fingertips down his body, feeling him tremble under her touch. Hard muscle, perfectly sculpted, rippled wherever she put her hands. Warm, clenching, alive, and hers. All hers.

She found his shaft and it was his turn to gasp as she explored him in turn. While she'd seen many naked men during costume changes, she'd never touched one before, never wanted to. His skin was much softer, yet firmer than she'd imagined. The way touching him made her ache and itch in odd, wonderful ways.

Erik reached down, opening her to his fingers. She couldn't help but look down where their hands were, at them touching each other, seeing his fingers where only hers had been before. She wanted to lean back, to close her eyes and give herself over completely to the sensations, but she didn't want to stop watching either, as if it would all stop, he would disappear if she did. She tightened her grip around him, stroking the full, hard, length.

His breathing grew ragged. His finger found the pulse-point of her ache and rubbed it. Christine arched, suddenly focused on that one spot, that point of mutual contact.

It didn't matter whether she pulled him or he shifted, or how it happened, only that they came together. She released her grip, moving her hands up to his sides, and gave herself completely into his care. He shifted slightly and she felt the full press of him against her.

Now she looked into his eyes. He watched her face intently as he claimed her.

Christine had not expected that burning pressure thrusting into her core, that quickly sweet fulfillment of him inside her.

She found purchase for her feet so she could push against his thrusts, giving him fuller access. He shifted again, taking advantage of her offer. Christine cried out a little as the fullness blossomed suddenly into a tidal wave crashing through all her senses. A tidal wave that kept pounding into her senses, until he crested as well, deep within her.

All they could do afterward is cling to each other, breathing in the scent of each other's bodies as their grip on the world righted.

Erik moved, taking some of his weight off her, looking down at her. His wig had gone astray at some point, his own lighter hair wisping over his face. She brushed it out of his eyes and smiled at him. A small smile quirked the corners of his mouth. There was nothing more beautiful than his face right now. She wanted to wake up every morning to it, have him there to kiss her to sleep every night.

It was not just lust, and more than respect for his talents, she loved him. This feeling of deep affinity had to be love.

She parted her lips to tell him so, but stopped. His words on their arrival came back. How she'd always chosen Raoul, to betray him for his brother's sake. Even now, with the most intimate act possible shared between them, would he believe her if she said the words?

He wouldn't.

Touching his lips, she knew that was the next thing she had to do was convince him of the truth. She just wished she knew how to do it.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Raoul strode from the front doors of the Opera Populaire, glaring at the dark carriage and horses that still waited out front. They hadn't managed to leave without him noticing, though how they'd gotten to the roof in the first place was still a mystery. He swiped at the soot stains on his trousers harder than necessary as he walked out to the corner of the building, peering down the alleyway where he'd last glimpsed them.

Damn Erik to the deepest depths of Hell. The man had more tricks than any magician. All the platforms in the middle of the theater were burned too much to dare climbing, yet he'd managed to drag Christine all the way to the roof. And she had been dragged, so too many bystanders had told him.

Bystanders too afraid to speak up against the Phantom.

Bare skin descended from the back of the rampant pegasus statue. Raoul's palms itched for a rifle he did not have. One bullet, and it would be finished, over. Even so, Raoul knew he was not the marksman who could make that shot.

A flash of white, the quick flare of dark hair as Christine followed. Had Erik forced her? Raoul grit his teeth at the thought. Christine had wanted to talk, but Erik had brought her there, isolated her away from everyone, seduced her--at best--in the very place where she'd first proclaimed her love for the only man who dared challenge the Phantom.

It would shatter his family beyond all repair for him to murder the thrice-accursed prodigal son.

In this moment, Raoul wasn't certain he cared.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** Such vitrol against dear Raoul. Come, come, gentle readers. The plans I have for our favorite viscount are far more luscious than mere death or insanity. Even more delectable than pairing him with Carlotta. But have no fear for Christine and Erik--I keep my promises.

Chapter Sixteen

Erik had said nothing as they redressed, though Christine noted he'd been extremely careful in shaking her clothing free of glass and debris and took his time buttoning her dress and smoothing it over her body. For all the touching, with his mask back in place, he was as unknowable as ever.

He held her hand tightly as he guided her back through the hidden passages, no longer insistent and demanding. It was more like the first time he lead her through the mirror, strong, mysterious, sexy. A dream come to life.

Christine knew it was still very much a dream, unfortunately. Until he would believe that she honestly loved him, that betrayal was no longer a possibility between them. She tugged on his hand when they reached the final doorway, before he opened it and they emerged back in the normal world. She wouldn't be able to explain it, but she didn't want to leave their little space, apart from everyone else, where there were no questions, no stares, no rebukes.

She felt him turn to her in the darkness. For that moment, she believed he felt the same reluctance to step out. But the world beneath the stage was no longer his anymore than it had ever been hers. Because of her.

Reaching up, she touched his cheek, silently asking for a last kiss, but he turned away, twisting the unseen handle to open the secret door and led her out.

Everyone had always told her how taking their first lover changed their entire world. So much talk about old things suddenly looked so wonderfully new and interesting again, how people just changed miraculously afterward. It had actually been a reason why Christine hadn't been eager before. She liked her world, how everything looked, knowing how people were. She didn't want them changing or seeing them differently.

But sex didn't change the way the devastation looked around the backstage. Now that she wasn't being supported by Erik, she had to concentrate on where she put her feet.

Erik, of course, seemed to have no care as he glided through the upheaval towards the glaring light of the stage. She stopped, watching him.

There was no doubt why he'd garnered the name of 'The Phantom of the Opera'. He moved so effortless despite the obstacles, so much a part of the theater yet so separate. So not a part of this world, yet she personally knew how very human he was.

It was if he'd let her in on his greatest secret, his humanity. How much he hurt, yearned, feared, dreamed—Christine doubted that even Mme. Giry knew how lonely he had been in his aloneness. Honestly, she had no idea until that very moment.

No, the world hadn't changed at all, but her understanding of the most important person in her life had.

He stood, bathed in the afternoon sunlight, a noble silhouette amidst shambles. It so suited him. The sight brought tears to her eyes.

Erik turned, looking over his shoulder at her, and extended his hand in the classic tradition of a man waiting for his lady. Christine picked up her skirt and joined him. Palm to palm felt totally different now, more intimate for all that it was publicly acceptable and expected.

They left without uttering a word, though Christine knew instinctively that they would talk soon. What happened was too important in their lives, both their lives, not to talk about it.

As Erik escorted her across the front courtyard to his carriage, Christine thought she heard the sound of an hoof against the brick behind them. She barely got a glimpse of someone standing in the shadow of the alley, out of sight, before he lifted her in and followed her. "Who was that?"

Erik barely glanced over his shoulder as the footman closed the door behind them. "Most likely a scavenger. They're like flies here."

Christine sat back as the carriage started off. For once, he regarded her instead of looking out the window. "Am I returning you to the Girys after dinner, or not?"

The thrill his question gave her was pure girlish silly, but she still smiled. He wasn't simply taking her home, they would go to dinner first. Then the real point of his question struck her. "I don't know. I don't think I should live in the same house as Raoul."

"Are you afraid of him?"

"No. No, not in the way you mean. He has this way of talking that—makes it hard for me to think. I can't get a decision in edgewise."

A small smile cracked his austere expression, though she wasn't certain why. "Forget him, and everyone else. I already have. What do you want?"

"Is that why you're so fearless? Do you truly not care what anyone else wants? What they think about you?"

"I know what they think of me. Some what me dead. I refuse to die. Some want me on display, 'the Devil's Child'. I refuse to be caged. All think me a freak, an abomination before God, though I am as I was born to be. Why should I care for them when they have no caring for me?"

"I don't think you're any kind of abomination."

"And so I asked you, what do you want?"

She searched his face for a moment as understanding came to her. His courtesies to her were proof of that she hadn't realized before. Her cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment. "I want to be with you."

He reached up and tugged on a lever on the frame she hadn't noticed before. A trap sprang open over her head, startling her. "Yes, monsieur?" the driver asked.

"Dinner, Dupont."

"Very good, sir."

The trap shut and the carriage started moving.

"I will warn you," Erik said, "that the count has decided to hold a gala next week to celebrate my return to the fold, out at the Rouen estate. It is the family seat, you know."

"Raoul mentioned it as we passed on the way to Perros, and how it would be unwise to stop there. He said it was very grand."

"My memories of it are vague, for I was very young the last time I was there. It is the hereditary home of the Count deChangy, after all. Now that I've been found, I'm certain he will retire there once he is assured of my continued presence."

"And where will you live?"

"I've not given that any thought."

She knew he wasn't telling the complete truth. "You mean, you haven't decided."

His gaze wasn't cool enough to scare her anymore. "My previous decision is--impractical now."

"What are your options?"

He considered. For a moment, she doubted he'd answer. She had no right to the answer, after all. She was no more than his paramour.

"I offered marriage long before he did."

Christine blinked in surprise and stared at him, _How did you know?_ dying unsaid. He knew. He'd always known.

What was she to say to that? _You frightened me so badly, I'd forgotten? I didn't want you? He said the words, so I had no doubt as to what he wanted of me?_

It didn't matter what she said, it all sounded bad and might ruin what was just beginning. "I know," she finally admitted. "But I can't keep asking my Angel's forgiveness."

"For fear he'd refuse?"

His tone was almost mocking. How odd that it felt like an endearment rather than infuriating. She knew she'd always have his forgiveness. For all his anger, once the Phantom loved you, that love was unwavering. Now, she saw that love was as much a responsibility as a blessing.

Christine moved over to sit beside him. He did not move over on the spacious seat, but kept their bodies close. She took his hand and meet his ever-patient gaze. "Because I intend never to need forgiveness again."

Erik lifted her hand, brushing her knuckles lightly with a kiss without breaking their shared gaze. A slight smile graced those very kissable lips. "To answer, I have had some thought to securing a flat near the theater."

It took a moment to reconnect with the question about his future. "Why?"

"I am the new patron of the Opera Populaire."

Her eyes widened at the news. "Do the managers know? Oh my!" She covered her mouth but still couldn't suppress the laugh as she pictured their faces. "They might well sell!"

"In which case, I will purchase. Though I am debating on simply installing an apartment rather than the extensive offices."

"I think that's a much warmer place than down in the caverns. Will this be announced at the gala?"

"Most probably." He leaned back against the leather cushions and regarded her. She noted he did not release her hand. "Will you perform at my gala, Christine?"

The prospect of performing again, this time truly for him, sparked more excitement than the entire wedding trip had. Her grin betrayed her delight. "Yes, I would like that—but who is conducting? Next week—I have to rehearse."

"The conductor is M. Reyer. I believe you're well familiar with his work."

"I'm certain we can decide on a very appropriate score for the gala."

"My carriage is at your disposal for rehearsals."

She laughed in pure pleasure. It was wonderful how he could magically sweep away all cares so easily and make the world look so marvelous. How could anyone demean or doubt him?

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Dinner was a quiet affair, but Erik had intended it to be. He had chosen a favorite restaurant for dinner, one that he had come to infrequently in recent years and did not question the mask. The decision was more from the desire to escape the countess' brooding because he could, not because it bothered him. In some ways, her tirades had been almost entertaining. After all, her beautiful Raoul had come directly to his brother then chased after Christine rather than properly on her. In all honesty, Erik now understood his own tendency to rail and tantrum against slights better, having witnessed hers once again.

Christine sat across from him, as effervescent as ever. Still, he watched her closely for some signs that his base needs had darkened her Light. Just when he was almost convinced, he'd see a flash of something too-somber cross her face as she regarded him and relief disappeared like a wisp of smoke.

He didn't know how he felt about the day. The wedding had been stopped, which he had not wanted. However his wildest fantasy had come true: Christine had chosen him once again and given herself wholly to him without pause or reservations.

He'd won, or had the Darkness finally conquered and he'd lost what little control he'd had over it. Now that she was his, could he protect her?

Fear was not a common sensation, but he knew it now. She had called him fearless, and he had been that once.

But no more.

No more.

Erik sipped his wine and considered the events of the last few days as a couple recognized Christine from her debut in _Hannibal_ and paid their respects. Now that he'd turned his mind to it, he would have a plan of what to do by morning. That was just the way things worked, after all.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

It felt strange to be back at the townhouse, after all that had happened. Christine sat at the vanity, watching Danielle unpacked her trunk without a word. It was so strange, returning here when she thought never to see it again. While she hadn't seen a hint of either of his parents, or Raoul, she felt their presence here far more than ever before.

It wasn't a comfortable feeling at all.

The maid hung up the last of her dresses and came over to comb out her hair. "It's good to have you back, Miss."

"I missed you," Christine said and found that she honestly meant it. The maid had been good to her during her brief stay. Danielle gave her a smile and let the curls down from the rushed pinning from this morning.

The door opened, slamming against the wall with a crack that rattled the pictures. Both women turned to see Raoul there. His fair face was flushed and he had the smell of a tavern about him, but Christine saw that his eyes were completely clear. He'd had a few drinks, but was far from drunk.

His gaze settled on the maid. "Leave us."

Without a word, Danielle set the comb down, and backed out of the room. As she passed Raoul, she gave Christine an apologetic and worried look.

Christine kept her attention on Raoul and straightened in her chair as he slammed the door shut behind the maid.

"You had sex with him, didn't you?"

Her breath caught in her throat. The horse she'd heard as they were leaving--it had been Raoul, not a scavenger. She swallowed hard but refused to wilt beneath his glare. "Yes."

"Why give yourself to him and not to me? We're engaged --"

"Were, Raoul. We were. I told you before, I can't marry you. I don't love you the right way."

"And you love him 'the right way'?"

"Yes."

His face flushed darker, his breathing quickened. She guessed the fact that she hadn't minced her answer was probably what infuriated him most. For the quickest of moments, she thought he might slap her, but he didn't. For all his anger, Raoul could never hurt her.

"For months," he said, his words carefully enunciated, "I've been told that you were only after my name, my title. I didn't believe them. I love you. I thought you loved me. But now--Now your affections wane as I'm no longer sole heir to the family fortune, you love him enough to do everything you refused me."

"You never wanted --"

"I wanted! Dear God in Heaven, I wanted."

His tense stance, the exasperated tone of his voice--she couldn't doubt him. "I'm sorry, Raoul. So very sorry."

"Perhaps, someday, you will be, Christine. Especially if you stay with him."

There was nothing more to be said, so she looked away until she heard the door shut behind him.

"He's only hurt, Miss," Danielle said quietly. Christine looked up, startled at the maid's reappearance. "He does love you, so of course he hurts to lose you."

"You don't think I'm a terrible person?"

"Miss Christine, your first night here, you were calling out to 'Erik', not him. I didn't say anything, since I didn't know who your Erik was."

"I did?"

Christine sat in stunned silence as the maid tended to her hair and prepared things for the night. Moments ago, she thought she had an understanding of where things were going in her life, how she thought she would get there--but now...

Now, Raoul thought she was gold-digger, that she never loved him, never felt anything...

How could a day dawn so promising end so miserable?


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** Thank you so very much for the great reviews and comments. I hope my little tale continues to delight you as much as it's fun for me to write. You might find a little surprise in this chapter--hopefully an utterly delightful one, of course.

**Chapter Seventeen**

The week before the gala passed both entirely too slow and too quickly for Raoul's liking.

Morning lessons with her damned Angel of Music followed by rehearsals somewhere else consumed Christine's entire day, every day. Perhaps it was just as well. She had made her decision and should suffer in her chosen Hell. It was what she deserved. He had his course plotted: The Ivory Coast and the start to a fine diplomatic career. He was content with his choice, excited about the possibilities.

But he couldn't walk away and leave her to the monster she thought she loved. Even if she didn't love him, Raoul cared too much to let her ruin herself on his demented brother.

All Raoul had to do was to look at his mother to see what ends Erik would drive a woman to. He couldn't bear to see Christine reduced to such a state.

Even more, he hated to think he was destined to love women Erik destroyed.

But how to save Christine? That was the question he wrestled with as he prepared to leave for his new assignment.

There was so little time, so little opportunity. The gala would be his first, and probably best, opportunity.

Of course, once he informed his parents of his impending move, his father offered him the olive branch of making it a joint-purpose gala: Welcoming home one son and bidding farewell to the other. He hadn't objected because of the pleading look on his mother's face. She would have to be there and he could not abandon her.

Now--he paused in his pacing consideration. Now, it seemed that his place as co-honoree at the gala was just what he needed to save Christine. She might well hate him afterward, and the plan forming in his mind could endanger his own life--but if it drove her away from the monster, it would be worth it.

He could sleep at night if she was safe, whatever the cost.

His discussion with her had set the stage. Raoul had no doubt that she would keep the words to herself and not share them in his family, particularly with _him_. A bit more preparation, and a visit to his friends to insure proper attendance, and everything would be set.

Two days, and she would be free. Raoul felt the rush of excitement return for the first time since the night of the fire.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Antoinette Giry blinked tears away from her eyes, her memory carrying her to that day, so long ago and yet only yesterday, when she stood in this very office listening to the same words, repeating the same vows. All those years ago, Erik stood where she was now, silent and looming beneath his hood. He'd frightened Jules terribly, but she could no more think about marrying with Erik beside her, her only family.

Now, she stood beside him, looking utterly handsome and solemn, as Erik spoke the vows neither of them ever thought he would.

Christine's hand trembled slightly as he slipped the ruby ring onto her finger. She was resplendent in a creamy dress with a rose red shawl that exactly matched the depths of color in the gem. Antoinette had never seen the girl happier than this moment, not even when making her stage debut. She just wished she could feel the same.

Meg dabbed her eyes dramatically, holding Christine's bouquet of roses as they completed the recitation of vows.

"Congratulations, Monsieur and Madame deChangy," the magistrate said. "Kiss your wife, sir."

It was a polite kiss, but Antoinette thought all such kisses were too polite.

Meg hugged her sister-friend. Antoinette slipped the magistrate the envelope Erik had entrusted to her on the ride over and the four of them filed out of the office. The driver waited at the carriage door, ready to assist as needed. Once Meg and Christine were inside, she touched Erik's arm to draw his attention.

There were no need for words between them. He'd seen this concern on her face countless times before.

And she got the calm, self-assured smile she expected and wanted to see. She wanted to believe that he had full control over every aspect of what was about to happen.

This gala had struck her as possessing the same danger as the opening production of _Don Juan, Triumphant!_ It knotted her stomach tighter and tighter the closer the event came. Now, a mere half-day away, it loomed large in her imagination. It would begin tonight and Antoinette didn't want to think about another disaster ruining their lives. Not barely a month after the first.

Erik touched her cheek, a rare brotherly caress. "Trust me."

The gold of his wedding band caught her eye, a silent testimony that some things had changed. She had to trust that not everything had, that he still had the incredible, mystical good fortunate that had always served him so well.

Perhaps, this time, it would not cost those he loved as well.

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Meg tugging on her hand pulled Christine's attention away from her new husband and foster-mother's conversation. "Oh, it's so lovely. It was all so romantic, wasn't it?"

The carriage swayed as Mme. Giry climbed in, quickly followed by Erik. Meg had taken the seat next to her to get a better view of the ring. Christine gave him an apologetic smile since they couldn't sit together, but he made no objection to sitting across from her. Her friend was oblivious to the faux pas.

"How did he get it to look so much like a rose?"

"I have had many talents and interests to pursue over the years and a great deal of opportunity to pursue them," Erik said. "Some have been more successful than others."

Having seen the evidence of many of his interests, Christine looked at the exquisite ring on her finger with different understanding. He'd created a wedding dress for her, why not a ring as well? At least it had not been lost with so many of his other possessions.

Part of her could not believe they'd actually done it so easily. The count and countess had left for Rouen the day before, Raoul had disappeared last night, leaving them completely alone in the townhouse for the first time. It had been completely naughty, his coming into her room and dismissing Danielle out of hand and spending the entire night with her. They had not made love, but just laid together in each other's warmth. One of those perfect moments of unspoken comprehension between them--last night had been a promise, but she hadn't known exactly of what until they stood in the foyer, waiting for the carriage.

Erik had chosen her dress--cream was a very odd selection for travel, but no one argued with him--and presented her with the shawl, rose red with black ribbons laced along the edges, draping it over her shoulders instead of her usual wrap. She'd turned to him, questioning.

"Shall we wed this morning?"

Such a simple question, she'd been unable to anything but embrace him in answer. No more words, just a floating, not-connected-to-her-body sensation. It was so strange, Raoul had done everything imaginable to make their elopement romantic--taken her to the place they'd met, filled her room with flowers the night before, read her poetry on the train there--yet when all was said and done, a simple shawl, a small bouquet tied with a black ribbon and one question and she'd been swept totally away.

It wasn't until the ceremony started and the reality struck her. She was now married to her Angel, bound forever, for better or worse. There would be no more fleeing in moments of panic. He was now foremost in her life and heart.

Christine looked at him, terrifying perfection she'd always struggled and worked to come close to, to be worthy of.

Raoul thought she only wanted him, now Erik, for their title and fortune. She knew the countess believed that, that many of the women and girls she'd grown up with in the chorus thought that as well.

Their marriage would be a scandal to taint the family for years to come, particularly when she was introduced at the gala tonight as Madame deChangy, and performed. Strangers would think no better of her than Raoul and the countess did.

It wasn't what she'd ever dreamt of.

Christine wished she could have that blissful state of happiness she'd felt during the ceremony back again.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

It shouldn't have surprised her, but Christine hadn't expected a private train car when they arrived at the station. Raoul had secured a private compartment for their wedding trip. But, then, they were running off to their elopement and trying to hide. The deChangys expected them on this train late that afternoon.

Why wouldn't Erik be allowed to use the family private car?

Had he had this planned from the moment his parents left the previous night? But, then, didn't he always have everything planned? It was something that the brothers did have in common, though Erik did not allow the preproduction to spoil the performance. For Raoul, it was all about the preparations and never about the execution.

Danielle and Claude, Erik's latest valet, moved around the posh sitting area. To Christine, it was obvious they were just straightening where they'd been sitting while waiting. Can't have their employers know that they were sitting about, bored, after all

"All is ready as you instructed, Monsieur." Claude bowed properly, gesturing to a table behind him as he straightened. It was a grand, classic gesture that touched Christine.

Danielle started removing the covers of the various serving dishes. Tantalizing scents filled the room, making her realize just how hungry she was after the light breakfast that morning. Erik offered his arm to escort her to the table, but she paused as she saw the pyramid of of _croquembouche_ at the far end of the sideboard. She'd seen the delicate crème-filled pastry puffs, drizzled with caramel glaze the French traditionally served instead of cake in bakery windows, but had never had an opportunity to taste one before.

And he'd thought to have them here, now.

The meal was superb, nothing less than she expected lately, though. It was delightful to see how much Mme. Giry and Meg enjoyed it. So very different from what was served at the opera.

The train jerked into motion just before they'd finished brunch and the dishes were cleared away. Even though Christine was pleasantly full now, she kept eyeing the stack of pastries still on the sideboard.

Erik finally popped the cork on the champaign and filled two regular flutes and passing them to the women. He filled a larger one and offered it to her. She took it, but he didn't release it. She looked at him oddly.

Mme. Giry smiled and took a triangle of toast from the plate Danielle held. Christine watched in growing confusion as the older woman held it up.

"May you only know contentment and prosperity in the years to come. May your love for each other know no boundaries and grow more each day. May your children be as strong, intelligent and as wonderful as you are."

Her voice broke, keeping her from going on. Meg took the toast from her, blushing slightly. "May happiness be yours, and your children be wonderfully talented, and all your dreams come true."

And then Meg dropped the toast triangle into the flute Christine held with Erik.

It had to be some odd French custom, since they all took it so calmly. A slight pressure on the goblet told her she should take a sip. She did, then he took a sip as well. Then Danielle served the _croquembouche_. While the pastry was heavenly and she ate too many of them, Christine kept wondering how to get the toast out of the champaign or if she should.

Good food, the taste of champaign and the easy motion of the train beneath them made Christine feel a little giddy. She didn't want to think about the performance later that evening. Erik stood and took hold of her elbow, excusing them to the Girys. She rose to her feet easily. He picked up the large flute and escorted her across the room to one of two doorways halfway down the car's length. "I'm not sodden," she told him.

The room within was a well-appointed lounge, complete with an elaborate, four posted day bed. Erik took another sip of champaign and set the flute on a table beside the bed. She took in the few, but elegant pieces of furniture and her heart started pounding. Her gaze moved to him, wanting confirmation of his expectations. "On a train?"

He loosened his tie in a single, graceful move. "Do you have objections?"

"Just--a question."

His hands paused in releasing his collar, waiting.

"Why today?"

Erik reached up, sliding his hands against her cheeks then back to unpin her hair. "Why not today?"

"Before the gala?"

"The gala is unimportant."

"I don't understand --"

"Is it so vital you understand in this moment?"

Christine caught her breath at the all-too-familiar undertone of anger in his voice. She should just give in, not push the question anymore, but she knew that if she didn't, she might never have the answer.

He pushed the shawl off her shoulders and away from her body, letting it drop. She shivered and met his gaze. His eyes had a chilly blue cast to them now, as if she needed further warning against his temper. But they were married now, she couldn't--wouldn't spend her life afraid of her husband.

"Yes. It is vital."

Erik paced to the other side of the room, gripping the bed post so tightly his knuckles whitened.

Christine waited.

He turned his head so she saw his handsome profile. "I have claimed you most every way possible."

He turned, moving in a way that made her feel stalked. She shivered, her heart beat faster, but still wouldn't back away.

"You are mine," he intoned, sweeping his fingertips across her temple. "I possess you intellectually." He stroked the side of her neck. "Artistically." He brushed his touch over her chest. "Emotionally." He cupped his hand over her breast. "Sexually. The only lack was legally. I saw no reason to postpone it any longer."

She couldn't help but to lean into his touch, her own hands sliding up his chest to open his clothes. "It's not that simple."

"Of course it is." Erik captured her mouth, silencing words and almost stilling her thoughts. The kiss left her panting. "You are mine."

"Not that easy."

His fingers tried to work the buttons down her back without success. He growled, gripping the cloth with both hands and pulled. She heard the rip, felt the release of fabric, as the buttons gave to the force and popped off. She gasped as he pulled the bodice of her dress over her shoulders, revealing her chemise. His gaze dropped her to her bosom, hungry and possessive. "Mine."

Christine pulled her arms from the sleeves, more excited than frightened. This was the man she loved: the forceful, demanding Phantom who would not be turned from his desire for her. He ripped through the last of the buttons, dropping her dress to the floor.

Fair was fair. She pulled open his shirt and ran her hands along the hard muscles of his belly, up to his chest. The feel of him, alive and human, was still a tantalizing sensation. Erik caught her hands, denying her as he stripped her of her chemise. She wanted to continue the protest, wanted to make him understand, but the fire burning in his eyes kindled the same in her deepest depths.

Still, he shrugged off his garments in one motion, allowing her to feast on the masculine beauty of his body for the moment before he picked her up and laid her back on the rich velvet covering of the bed.

As she watched, he finished undressing. Christine reached up to draw him down for a kiss. He did not have to repeat "Mine", but she felt distinctly as he stole her breath and thoughts. His kisses moved down her neck to cover her breasts, branding her as his. She pressed against him, silently urging him for more.

When his mouth moved down between her legs, she nearly screamed. So forbidden, so naughty, so wonderfully decadent--she wanted, craved, but didn't know what. His tongue teased in ways that simply defied rationale, tasting what shouldn't be tasted. Christine moaned, writhing, trying in vain to be fully possessed. Yet, bliss came to her alone and felt emptier for it.

Catching her breath, she looked at him. He knelt between her legs, naked, superbly handsome, and entirely too pleased with himself.

She sat up and climbed onto his lap, straddling his thighs. His breathing quickened as she pressed his erection between their bodies. She kissed him, the taste of her own pleasure an exotic tang on his tongue. His heat against her skin wasn't enough. Not now. Not when he was hers forever.

Kissing, even with his mask in place, felt too good to stop. His arms went around her, holding her, supporting her, making her completely secure and safe.

She reached down between their bodies, her fingers seeking out his hardness. His entire body tensed when she touched him. His skin there was soft, belying the stiffness beneath. Holding him made her all too aware of her own deep-seated need still unsatisfied. So she lifted her hips and took him inside her.

It wasn't enough, but it was a start.

Erik quivered, then pushed deeper, joining them further. That was what she wanted, them joined, together, united. That was how they belonged.

It was so easy to lose herself in their completion. The mutual give and thrust until it seemed they breathed for each other. When bliss came this time, it was fulfilling and everything she wanted it to be.

Afterward, she curled against his shoulder, wrapped in his arms, still feeling so much a part of him she didn't want to move yet. Erik held her closely and brushed his cheek against the top of her head. "My wife."

It was breathless, worshipful, awed.

She hugged him with her entire body. "My husband."

He paused for a moment, his hold on her loosening slightly. Christine raised her head and smiled at how his mask had gotten slightly skewed. "My Angel of Music," she said as she straightened it for him.

"My Angel of Music," he tried to correct her. "My voice."

"My song." She curled back against his shoulder and hugged him again.

He buried his face in her hair, holding her tight again. She almost missed his whisper of "My Light."

"My Darkness."

"How can you say that like it's a good thing?"

"Without darkness, how can you tell there's light? Without light, how can you know there's darkness?" She hugged him again. "I am yours and you are mine. Haven't you felt it? Two halves of the same whole? We complete each other. We always have."

There was the simple truth of it. She knew it as soon as she spoke it. She couldn't imagine that he didn't sense it too.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** _Merci!_ Thank you for all the commentary. I hope you continue to enjoy as much as I'm having fun creating it--which is quite a bit.

Chapter Eighteen

Maurice deChangy welcomed his guests with far more gusto than usual, fielding the polite questions on what the occasion was with far more aplomb than normal. "My long search has ended," he told everyone, not containing his joy. Those who knew him, which was the majority of these guests, understood without further explanation.

After twenty years of diligent searching, expectations ran high. None were higher than Maurice's own.

That friction between the boys continued was the only guarantee. The orchestra and Miss Daaé's performance had been the only thing they'd agreed upon for this gala. At least Maurice had some peace from his wife once Raoul curtly informed them that he no longer intended to marry the girl. Upon reflection, she'd always seemed far more intimate with Erik than with Raoul, even upon first sight. He hoped that Raoul did not plan anything stupid or embarrassing for tonight.

Yet, the spirit of the celebration lifted his doubts and made him forget past mistakes and any foretelling doom. This was Erik's welcome home, his debut into the world where he belonged, to his peers. He would see that his son took his rightful place in proper society.

He greeted Colonel Perrault and his wife, stopping to chat politely with his son's once-again commander, making the standard jokes a father was expected to about not showing his son too much adventure. Their wives promised to talk more about accommodations and what might be needed as more guests arrived to be welcomed.

The doorman announced Monsieurs Fermin and André, which made his wife's back straighten with indignant propriety. They had been among the few people Erik had requested, so Maurice could not snub his son, however he could not help but also notice how out of place they were amongst their betters. Still, they had to be greeted in turn.

"Monsieur le Count," André, always the more social one, said. "I hope we're not too tardy."

"You're here before the guests of honor, monsieur. That is all that counts." Maurice glanced at the entrance, hoping that his sons were not in competition for the grandest entrance.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

In the end, Raoul had decided he dared not include anyone in this scheme of his. No gendarmes, no friends. There could well be a high cost to pay and he couldn't ask anyone he cared about to share such a burden.

He strapped the sword to his hip then allowed his valet to drape the jacket over his shoulder, as he'd worn it at the masquerade ball not that long ago, yet another lifetime ago. He studied himself in the full-length mirror then dismissed the servant. "Enjoy the evening, Emilé."

"Thank you, sir. And you, sir."

Alone, Raoul turned away from the mirror and opened the box containing his service pistol. He made certain it was loaded and then snuggled it into the harness he'd strapped on under his clothes and went back to the mirror.

The fall of his jacket hid all signs of the pistol perfectly. There could be no dancing, or it would be noticed.

If Fortune smiled upon him, then no one would notice unless he had to use it.

Tonight would be, as the song said, a point of no return. Raoul knew his father had been busy with lawyers all week, most probably stripping him of the title of viscount to give to the "rightful" son. Though he hadn't been informed of it, Raoul could live without the title. He could live without the accounts, he had his own investments now. He had someplace to go, things to do that did not revolve around his father or family.

All that was the future, however, things that lay beyond tonight. Tonight would decide everything. He would show the damnable Phantom for the insane monster he was so there would be no doubt in anyone's mind. It was possible that Erik might well kill him. It was a risk he was prepared to take for Christine. But he would die proving he was right.

His cost no longer mattered, as long as she was safe.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

"I don't see why Christine isn't going in with him," Meg commented as they waited their turn to be announced. "They're married, after all."

"This is his night," Christine said. "We'll have ours later. After he's more established."

"Who decided that?"

She looked at her friend and sighed a little in frustration. "We did."

Meg screwed up her face. "I still think it's wrong."

"Enough, _petites_," Mme. Giry admonished them as they stepped forward. She smiled as Christine twirled the ruby ring around her finger. "You will be exquisite tonight, my dear. As usual."

"_Merci_. You know I'm always a little nervous."

Meg clasped her hand. "You are the best, Christine. Of course you'll be wonderful."

They reached the top of the stairs. Mme. Giry gave their names to the doorman, who turned and, in a bored but well-modulated voice, announced them. "Madame Antoinette Giry and her daughter, Marguerite."

Christine took a breath as they descended to the reception line and repeated the sequence for herself. The ballroom seemed at least as large as the entire audience seating of the Opera Populaire, perhaps larger. Three chandeliers blazed overhead to light the length of the room. The orchestra had been ensconced at the far end in the space cleared for dancing, though the acoustics were good enough that the music carried to the far end as a mere whisper.

The count and countess' greeting to the Girys was polite, but quick, and her friends moved off a short distance to wait for her. Christine started to curtsy, but caught herself. Whether they knew it or not, she was their daughter-in-law, not just a performer for the evening. She didn't need to do a deep curtsy for them, just a small, polite one.

The countess was cold and disapproving, of course, but Christine expected nothing less from the woman. The count was his usual warm, if slightly distracted, self. "Have you seen either of my sons this evening, Miss Daaé?"

"No, sir, but I did not attempt to. Don't worry, they'll be here shortly."

"How can you be so certain."

A small smile tugged at her lips. "Because neither of them will be late for one of my performances."

The count laughed and Christine could see some of the tension drain out of him. He caught her hand and kissed it. "Spoken like a true prima donna, my dear."

Christine moved off to rejoin the Girys and hoped she hadn't lied in the middle of her bravado.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Raoul appeared in the doorway, nodding the doorman, and waited for what he expected to be an abbreviated announcement. The footman gave him a polite bow before turning to the room.

"Capitane Raoul deChangy, Viscount deChangy."

Raoul paused, silently stunned, then pleased, to hear the title still attached to his name, then descended to greet his parents.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

"There's Raoul," Meg whispered to Christine, tugging on her arm for further impact.

Christine looked up at the dashing figure in the doorway then quickly away. Most of the women, even the older ones, were looking as well. He was a dream in motion, any girl's fantasy--Many girls' fantasy, apparently. And he had been hers, totally devoted to her.

She watched him greet his parents.

That had been the problem all along--he'd offered her a fantasy. Raoul had been very careful about keeping everything just so, never letting her think beyond what he wanted her to. Fantasy, dream, everything she'd thought she'd wanted, everything she'd been taught she should ever want.

But she couldn't live in a fantasy. Life was real and she loved life as she lived it.

That's why all the flowers and the poetry wasn't romantic. She'd seen it for the vision it was and it wasn't want she wanted in a marriage.

"Monsieur Erik deChangy," the door man announced.

Her attention immediately went to her husband. The thought brought a quiet smile to her lips. He also drew attention from everyone, but that made sense. He was the mysterious missing son, the real reason for this gala.

She was dressed in powder blue with a royal blue border. Erik's suit was black, but his waistcoat was the same rich, royal blue. He glided down the stairs, making it clear he took in everything in a glance and that it was all his to do with as he pleased. Erik possessed true power and control, even more so than his sire.

And everything about Erik was real. All his flaws, all his sins, all his genius--nothing about him was a dream. Not even the fact that he was hers alone was a dream.

Raoul had stepped away, joining the other men in uniforms to one side of the room, as Erik approached their parents. Christine stepped closer, just in time to hear the countess' disapproving tone, if not the words she used. Erik said nothing, merely gave her a look which would wither a person with a conscious and shook hands with his father.

No pretense, no lies about Erik. Entirely real.

She blinked away unexpected tears at the realization of how much he meant to her. The count turned with Erik, ending the receiving line, and tried to steer him towards a gathering of men in fine suits a short distance away. Her Angel made eye contact with her and ignored his father, moving to join her. "What is wrong?"

The simple question made her smile. No instant reassurances that everything was just as it should be, just the immediate, quiet promise that he would fix whatever distressed her.

He took her hand. She could feel his ring beneath the fabric of his glove. Could she explain the depths of her revelation here, in as few a words as they'd have together before someone interrupted them?

"Nothing's wrong. I just realized how much I love you."

The harsh edge of his expression softened and he squeezed her hand. That he felt the same was obvious and Christine found she didn't need the words spoken right now. Erik lifted her hand and kissed it. "I look forward to your performance, my Angel of Music."

"It would not be a performance without my Angel's attendance." She glanced beyond, to the count's patiently impatient waiting. "I believe you're required elsewhere at the moment, though."

"Business," he drawled, sounding perfectly bored by the very concept and a great deal like his father at that moment. She giggled, making him smile in turn. Even so, she didn't think he was in any rush to take up his duties again. "It seems Antoinette has on her Stage Mistress face."

"And we both know what that means," she agreed with a dramatic sigh.

He kissed her hand again and departed. Christine just enjoyed watching him move, so confident, so sexy. After a long moment, she turned back to her friends. Several of the guests looked at her with destain, even disgust, for enjoying him so publicly. They meant to embarrass her, but she couldn't feel shame. All she could do was to smile graciously, nodding to acknowledge their glares with the same 'your opinion matters to me, why?' air that her husband had mastered.

Meg stood, staring at her as she rejoined them. "When did you become a lady?"

All Christine could do in answer was give her a knowing smile.

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"It would be good to keep at least a little distance from her, son. Most here know she was engaged to your brother."

Erik did not glance at his father as he accepted a glass of wine from a servant. "In deference to your concerns on that matter, we're not announcing our marriage this even. However, I refuse not to give my wife any attention due her."

The servant's eyes widened a little, but a glare from his father sent him on his way. Erik sipped his wine, knowing that the news would be spread across the ballroom faster than a blaze. Servants' gossip was more reliable than the post.

"And when did this occur?"

"This morning, before we left Paris." He met his father's eyes. "I do not suffer from my brother's arrogance."

"No," the count replied drily, "you have your own brand."

Erik smiled, pleased by the assessment, and raised his glass in silent toast to it.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

When Isabella heard the rumor going around that Erik had wed the opera tramp, the honest truth is that she was glad. At first. Oh, of course, she had to conceal that thrill of victory. Married, the little tart couldn't go after her beautiful son again and he'd be safe.

The awful truth struck her before the end of the conversation. Christine Daaé had snagged the real heir this time. In time, all of Isabella's jewels, furs, everything would pass to that gold digging little minx's possession. It was just unbearable.

She sank into a chair, feeling chill and shaken.

Her feelings towards the girl had been mere dislike previously, but now they condensed into hate. How dare something that young think she could beat her. Oh, she should almost say and do nothing and let her live with the horror of having that monster as her spouse. It was almost enough of a revenge, one the girl even chose for herself.

Not at the cost of the deChangy name, though. Not their reputation. She may have been a prima donna, but there had been no more scandal than that to her marriage. That minute buzz had died down in months, but this--the weight of Christine Daaé's outrages could ruin everything, especially when combined with the true horrors of the man who had to inherit now.

"Maman?"

Isabella blinked then smiled at her beloved Raoul's concerned expression. "Just some upsetting gossip, is all, _mon chér._ Perhaps you would be good enough to confirm it for me?"

"Of course."

"It is said that your brother married your former lover this morning."

Raoul's entire countenance darkened as she'd never seen before. She caught her breath, momentarily afraid, and wondered if she'd misstepped in telling him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note:** If anyone is curious as to the lyrics of the songs which Christine sings in this chapter, check them out here: The Angel, Be Quiet!, In the Hothouse, Anguish, and Dreams.

Chapter Nineteen

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Fermin said as people gathered around the orchestra. He gestured to his partner and then in the general direction where the count stood. "On behalf of our patrons, we are pleased to present Miss Christine Daaé."

Christine began to step forward but paused at the look M. André shot at his partner. The shorter man stepped forward, continuing the introduction gracefully, "Who will be performing _Five Songs for the Female Voice_ by the majestic composer, Herr Richard Wagner. Miss Christine Daaé."

At his gesture, she stepped forward and took her place at the curve of the piano. M. Reyer took the seat at the piano as the rest of the orchestra set aside their instruments. This particular set of songs was for voice and piano. She gave a small bow to M. Reyer to indicate her readiness and waited for the opening notes.

They weren't long pieces, nor particularly difficult ones from a vocal stand point, but the meanings of several of them spoke to her when she was considering what to perform. This was her Angel's celebration, after all, so the first one was a natural. And no performer could simply not perform one without all the others in the cycle. It was an absurd a notion as singing without notes.

It was the first time in all the years of singing for her maestro that she could honestly watch his reactions for herself, not merely imagine him cringing or nodding or, perhaps, grinning. Even on stage the once, she'd been distracted by the needs of the moment, until the very end. All of her guesses were wrong. His face was dreamy, his eyes half-closed as the music carried him to some place sublime and blissful.

The sight lifted her confidence and her spirits. The applause was politely enthusiastic. She gave them a thankful curtsy and remained in place, giving M. Reyer the signal that she'd decided to do the other piece they'd rehearsed. He looked a bit apprehensive, but did not argue as he relinquished the piano to take the podium once again.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," she said as the applause quieted. She heard the low rustles as the orchestra took up their instruments and prepared to play again. She took her place to one side of the podium. "We would now like to present for your enjoyment an aria from the final act of the last production of the Opera Populaire which was never performed. _Aminta's Lament_ from _Don Juan, Triumphant!_"

She could see Erik's entire body tensed as she announced the song, his brow darkened. It was too late to change her mind now. He had told her to sing any composer but himself, hadn't he? Christine felt her heart sink at the terrible lapse in judgment and the music swelled in the introduction to the song.

She couldn't not sing it now.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Raoul watched the fear fill Christine's eyes as the song from the Phantom's damned opera began. Unlike the original production where they were consciously trying to provoke their prey into action, the music was very heart-wrenchingly beautiful now. The lyrics spoke of Aminta's love and adoration for the heartless Don Juan, who had rebuffed her as his attentions were drawn to another conquest.

Christine's eyes teared as she sang, giving her voice just the right quaver to add another layer of depth to the words. Was she just acting again, or was there something more happening here than Raoul knew?

Christine raised her hand in a beseeching gesture. The ruby ring she now wore caught the light and gleamed for the moment. The sight of it ripped his thoughts away from the performance.

Married. The monster had married her. Raoul had no doubt that it had been coerced or forced in some way that Christine wasn't even aware of. She might even believe it was her own idea. The Phantom had always had some kind of hold on her Raoul could not understand or break.

That sealed what he had to do.

He took a deep breath. Erik had to die. Tonight.

Raoul glanced over at him, standing there, oblivious to the world. How likely would it be to find the man alone at any point? He doubted it highly. To challenge a duel over Christine would only distress her further. He remembered all too clearly how badly she shook with emotion on the ride back from the cemetery and how she'd refused to speak to him once they arrived.

No, it would be an honest murder. Let there be witnesses and no doubt. Yes, he would be guillotined for the offense. He knew that. But some things were worth dying for.

As odd as it sounded, he hoped Christine was with child now, so the deChangy line would not end when he died. And she would hate him, but she would be free.

Yes, he could hang knowing that.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Erik stiffened at the announcement of his work. While he trusted Christine to perform as he'd written, the orchestration of his music at the performance had been far from his expectations or directions.

Under M. Reyer's conducting, the music was far closer to what he'd always heard in his mind. Not exact, but not as painful as the original production. He inclined his head, his trust in the man's talent and professionalism restored.

He allowed himself to relax and enjoy as the song continued. Christine's voice passed perfection and edged on the sublime as she took what he'd created and made it hers. No, theirs.

It was a humbling yet exhilarating feeling. He would crave it again.

Once, he'd told her not to sing any of his compositions. When he'd said that he thought he was protecting her with that demand, denying her their strongest bond on a personal level. Then he realized it was for his own salvation: he wanted no reminder of his own need for the music of the night.

Now—now he realized he'd made the demand out of fear. Odd, that thought--that he would be afraid of anything. But he'd been afraid of this very thing he craved now, that divine union of composer and performer. Of vision brought to life.

Next time, however, the orchestration would reach the same levels.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Within the scope of the grand ballroom, people might not understand why Maurice stationed himself in the center alcove. It was small, hardly large enough for a comfortable chair and already filled with one of the many pedestals and small statues common throughout the space. Those old enough to remember would know it was where his mother had reigned from, but those people were few.

The simple truth of it was that the room had a few spots where the acoustics were best. Erik had claimed the one he preferred, close enough to the orchestra to watch it. This was Maurice's preferred spot, for here he could observe the entire gala and stand ready to play the good host.

His wife sat with her friends in an alcove on the other side of the room, which was designed to be acoustically dead for those who preferred to converse. It was also close to the refreshment tables with a servant devoted to them alone. It was a space he avoided when possible, not wanting to take part in the women's ceaseless rendering of judgment on all and sundry.

When they were first married, he'd made an effort to draw Isabella out into the finer parts of the entertainment. She'd been a prima donna in her own right, after all. But she proved to have no interest. She attended to see and been seen, which seemed very shallow to Maurice when there was so much richness to be enjoyed beyond gossip-mongering.

His gaze went to his eldest son, as it so often did when he had the opportunity to watch unobserved. It had been more than a month since Erik had returned home, yet Maurice still found himself having to check to make certain he wasn't gone again, that some force hadn't stolen him away. Or, worse, that Erik preferred his life in the caverns to his birthright.

Despite all public denials, Maurice was not fool enough not to realize that Erik had been the elusive Opera Ghost plaguing Raoul and the managers all that time. His curiosity had been raised every time he heard more about the situation there. If not for Isabella's sudden, all-encompassing need to go to England to visit her mother's grave and "take the waters" at Bath, he would have been in Paris during those final weeks to investigate.

Not for the first time, he wondered if that trip hadn't been arranged by his family to prevent his investigation.

When Erik was a boy, Maurice had plans for the best tutors and university so his genius would not be squandered. With the right guidance, there was no doubt that his son would have been another Leonardo daVinci, a true Renaissance man. All his brilliance concentrated into two things: survival and music. Standing here, listening to something his son composed, Maurice was not certain all the tutors or learning in the world could have equaled what he heard now.

Then there was Erik's bride, the young woman who had mesmerized both his sons. A quiet, sensitive girl, quite unlike Isabella. Perhaps that alone was the attraction. And her talent—Isabella had been a prima donna but this performance held a maturity well beyond Miss Daaé's years. It tugged at his heart, even though his thoughts were elsewhere. What a shame that marriage would steal her away from the stage before she could truly come into her own.

What a shame that their lives would be forever changed by the decisions of the last several weeks, marriage being the least of them.

He fixed his gaze on his son. _God willing, may you know no more tragedy in your life._

As if Erik heard the silent wish, he turned and met his gaze, nodding silently in acknowledgement.

Maurice smiled and lifted his glass in silent toast. Little wonder there was so many problems in capturing the Opera Ghost, with that ability to sense the world around him. Yet, there he stood now, with the managers he'd tormented, as companionable as if they were long-time partners and friends.

His attention moved to his youngest son. Looking at Raoul in his uniform, Maurice realized that he barely knew the young man. Vaguely, he recalled that Raoul had joined the service, but he didn't recall how long ago it had been, or any sustained absence, didn't recall when the boy returned. In fact, he couldn't recall off-hand how old Raoul was at all.

Though he knew to the month how old Erik was.

He signaled a servant for another glass of wine. Thinking back, he couldn't remember much about Raoul at all, save for the constant reminders that he wasn't a genius, like Erik, they shared no interests. Almost from birth, he had been claimed so totally by Isabella, Maurice now wondered if it would have been possible to know the boy.

Almost from birth. That claiming hadn't truly started until just after Erik's disappearance. He'd thought it a natural reaction to having just lost one son, and being afraid for the other. Yes, surely that's what it had been. She had protected Raoul, raised him, freeing him to hunt for Erik.

And now, all these years later, his younger son was a man he did not know and felt barely introduced to.

The fresh glass of wine was so much vinegar in his mouth and even more sour in his stomach.

In searching for one son, he'd lost the other. Raoul had been the cost of his search for Erik.

Perhaps he was a fool after all.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

The applause for this performance was everything Erik felt Christine deserved. Her gaze came to him almost immediately, seeking his reaction, his approval. This was no private session for commentary or critique. He merely inclined his head, applauded politely, and waited.

The count had thoughtfully arranged for an appropriate bouquet of flowers to be delivered after her performance, as befitted a diva. The butler brought them out and presented them to her with a full bow.

Fermin tried to draw his attention, but Erik ignored him as she took the blossoms. They draped dramatically over her arm. She found the red rose he'd inserted among the spring flowers immediately. She pulled it free, saw his signature black ribbon and grinned, her delight and pleasure plain for him, and everyone, to see.

He turned his full attention to the two managers. "At your service, monsieurs."

"As the new patron of our opera," Fermin began. Erik gave him a small, almost threatening smile at the insistence. The man hesitated, then pulled himself straighter. "I thought it best if we came to an understanding in the rebuilding. We've been interviewing architects..."

"Do not waste the time. I have already begun the designs."

"Y--Y--You?" André stammered.

Erik leveled a gaze on the shorter man that did nothing to quiet his nerves. "I assure you, gentlemen, that there is no one, not even the original builders, who knows the structure of that building better than myself. I know where every weakness lies and what is sound. As my father promised, everything will shine as gloriously as it did before. If not more so. However, there were many things beneath the surface that were substandard and easily dangerous. That will no longer be tolerated."

He sipped his wine as he waited for them to make the connection between his stated knowledge and the chandelier's demise.

Of course it was business-minded Fermin who made the connection. "So it was completely under control, the entire time."

"There was no need for death, merely some destruction and distraction."

André was not so quick. "But—the rope, the chandelier –"

Fermin frowned at him. "If the weight of the chandelier had been on the rope he cut, it would've been taunt. In fact, it might have toppled that bridge, now that I think on it."

"It was a diversion," Erik confirmed. "A dramatic warning to impending danger. The actual switch was thrown from below, out of sight of the audience."

Fermin exhaled, his eyes showing his new-found appreciation for the engineering behind the feat, and nodded. "Yes, yes, I can see where improvement would have to be made."

"So," Erik said, his estimation of the man improving, "if you find the conditions of my patronage unsatisfactory, let us agree on a price now and a check will be waiting for you when you leave. The choice is yours."

André blinked several times at the casual offer. Fermin inclined his head. "That matter will take some discussion, monsieur. If you'd excuse us."

It was nothing more or less than Erik expected of them. He knew how much they paid for the Opera Populaire, since the walls of the manager's office were not as thick as anyone else suspected. He would make them a reasonable offer, if they preferred. In all honesty, he did not care to deal with the mundane cares of running the theater and would be as happy to have them in place as to find someone else to handle such business.

The pair stepped away, apparently searching for a private place to have their discussion. Erik considered his options for mingling with the others. There were plenty of business people to meet, wives to greet, but Erik decided he would give a call to his mother's clique.

He'd not gotten far before the warning he was being hunted prickled the back of his neck. He turned to look.

And stared at the muzzle of Raoul's pistol.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:** I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Keep reading. The fun is not over quite yet.

Chapter Twenty

Isabella always kept an eye on Raoul at a gala. It was a pleasure to watch him move or just to look at him, such poetry in human form as he was. Not to mention, he was normally the most interesting person to watch at such dull events. Tonight was different, however. She hadn't seen him this tense since before he last left for the military. Perhaps not even then.

He'd moved to the refreshment tables, oddly enough, walking along their lengths without looking at the banquet selections on fine porcelain, spread out across the white linen. Not even the pâté or shrimp he usually feasted upon and had ever since he was a boy.

It wasn't difficult to see where Raoul's attention was: Erik.

The monster stood almost in the center of the space between the end of the tables and the edge of the orchestra, talking with the two cretin theater managers. Normally that was her husband's preferred spot, but Maurice held court opposite her, in the noisy alcove she detested. Yielding to his beloved son in every way. She gave a smile to one of her companions without marking the comment, just to keep her lips from pulling back into a snarl at the thought. Everything was for Erik. Even now, when the abomination was among them again, there seemed to be no end to it.

The conversation ended, the managers moving vaguely towards Raoul. More likely the refreshments, they were classic bourgeois, after all. A glance showed that the tramp also was crossing to that area. But Erik paid none of them any mind, as he sipped wine and gazed out over the crowd.

It was then that Isabella registered the fact that Raoul had drawn a pistol and meant to shoot.

Her breath caught, her heart pounded. No words. She could only watch, captivated by the spectacle.

The room seemed to come to a chilled hush almost immediately. Isabella glanced around, but no one else seemed capable of movement.

Good.

"Dare you finish what was started in the cemetery?" Erik asked as casually as if he were ordering a bath drawn. "I wonder."

The idea of Erik dead thrilled her.

If Raoul killed him then he would be executed for the murder.

That she could not abide. She found strength to push out of her chair and shout, "No!" even as she saw Raoul's finger pull the trigger.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

The unreality of the situation stopped Richard Firmin's conversation with his business partner in mid-word. Raoul deChangy drawing a pistol. During a gala? Unthinkable.

Yet, there it was.

For all that Firmin had been frustrated and angry over the last several months, he'd only wanted the man in gaol to face the consequences, not be murdered. And certainly not by the viscount.

Christine Daaé hurried towards them, her arms still full of flowers. André caught her, holding her away from the confrontation.

"Dare you finish what was started in the cemetery?" the Phantom taunted. "I wonder."

There was no stopping to think. Firmin grabbed the bouquet and swung it at the pistol.

He lost his balance even as the blossoms engulfed the viscount's hand and lost hold. Hitting the marble floor hard with his shoulder, he rolled away in pain, fully expecting to hear the weapon's report.

It never came. His shoulder and arm erupted into waves of pain, but he was certain that the screams he heard were not his.

He knew the bestial growl certainly wasn't.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Raoul hadn't expected Firmin to stop him. Flowers and greens flew everywhere. He lost his grip on his pistol. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Erik lunging for him. Barely, he managed to get his arm up to block. The two of them toppled to the floor.

Erik's face twisted in a vicious snarl. Raoul wasn't fighting a man, he was fighting an animal.

A man would make fists and punch, but no. Erik was only interested in grabbing his throat.

Erik's superior weight crushed down against his body, making it hard for Raoul to breath. It was all Raoul could do to keep those gloved hands away from his throat.

Desperate, Raoul twisted, got a foot against his attacker's body and kicked. Erik fell away. Raoul rolled to his feet. His pistol lay amidst the remains of the bouquet, almost covered with lilies. He scrambled for it.

His boot slipped on the floral debris. His knee hit the hard marble hard. Raoul cursed under his breath.

A hand gripped him, dragging him up and away from the weapon. Raoul tried to twist, but Erik's hands appeared, now bare, and pulled something tight against his throat.

Raoul grabbed for the garrote, but it was hopeless. Erik pulled harder. Raoul gasped.

"Never hesitate," the Phantom growled in his ear.

The bastard was giving him a lesson? Or was it a warning?

His vision blurred. Raoul knew the sensation of choking too well. He was going to die.

And Erik promised no hesitation.

His one win was that Erik would be guilty and would pay. Raoul still won. Christine would be free.

Erik snarled next to his ear. As if the Phantom could read his thoughts and wished to deny him the one thing worth dying for, the garrote loosened and his hands disappeared. Raoul staggered, catching the thing and discovering it had been a leather glove.

Erik grabbed him and tossed him aside, like a sack of rubbish. Raoul sailed into the refreshment table, crashing into the crystal punch bowl and cups and into the pâté service. The table collapsed.

The dull pain was nothing to the embarrassment of the situation. He felt the wash of punch flow down his back and into his trousers as he started pushing himself out of the mess. He heard the screams and outcries as if they were in another room, except for one voice. His mother's shout of "Raoul! My darling boy!" cut through everything else.

Raoul hung his head as she continued to fuss and order people about to help him.

_Dear God, Erik, why couldn't you have just killed me?_

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Christine caught her breath as Erik strangled Raoul and then, for no understandable reason, just tossed him into the nearest refreshment table. Erik did not leave immediately, but merely stood there, breathing hard. She glanced over, to see to see Raoul stirring slightly beneath the weight of food.

Erik shifted, drawing her attention back to him, and looked to the floor nearby. Christine's gaze followed to see Firmin painfully sitting up, holding his side. André stopped staring and moved to help him to his feet.

She looked back at her husband, but he was gone. Not to be seen anywhere.

Lifting her skirts, she hurried out the nearest door and looked for him in the corridor beyond. The only person she saw was a rather startled waiter, looking further down the hallway to a door.

She hurried through that door and found the kitchen. Most everyone still stood there, staring either at each other or towards yet another door at the far end of the room. She followed their stares and found herself in the passage headed down.

Of course Erik would seek the familiarity of the subterranean. Down was safe to his experience. There was an unlit lantern on the wall, but she went down without it.

The stairs themselves were well-worn stone, making them a little treacherous in her ballroom slippers, and she had to keep a hand on the wall as she wound her way into the blackness. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and peered around. There was a huge sense of space beyond the few wine racks she could make out in the dim light filtering down from the kitchen.

Christine moved forward carefully, listening for any hint of his presence but feeling he was here, somewhere.

There, a rustle of silk. Her questing hands found the end of a rack. Each step convinced her how much better this cellar was than she could guess. She swallowed her uncertainty then took a breath. There was one way to call that she thought he'd answer.

"I am your Angel of Music," she sang softly to him, as he had to her many times in the past. "Come to me, Angel of Music."

His wry laughter was soft, yet was close and just behind her. She turned, startled, took a step and drew back as she felt him just appear before her.

"Erik!" Christine hesitated but a moment then rested her hands on his chest. "Are you hurt?"

"And why would I be hurt?"

She slid her arms around him and held him, resting her cheek against his heartbeat. "You didn't kill him."

"I know." His hands stroked her back. It was hard to believe those very hands held Raoul's life in their grip just moments ago, as soft and tender as they were now.

"Why? Was it because of me?"

Erik closed his eyes and pressed his good cheek against her hair. Because of her? Yes, in many ways, but not entirely.

It was easy to kill in Darkness and, for the briefest of seconds, he'd thought he had that. Then he looked and knew that Darkness could no longer be absolute, that there was always Light as well. She had brought that Light into his life, rooted it into his soul with her love. With his love for her.

His life would no longer be one or the other, but ever a choice. Every moment in life, he would have to see the two, know Dark and Light, and choose between them.

In his mind, he could hear the symphony that would depict that conflict, that coming of the strange balance within himself. The haunting horns, the promising strings--it was all there. But finding words? There were no words for this.

"Why?" he echoed her question. She stirred, looking at him though she could not possibly see him as well as he saw her. Her young face looked hopeful, confused, concerned. "Because there can be no more wars between us. The pain must stop. Now."

She blinked and smiled at him. "I love you."

He brushed away the tear forming in the corner of her eye. "Two halves of the same whole."

Kissing seemed all the sweeter once the words were truly for him.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Hands grabbed hold under his arms and helped Raoul up. His face felt encrusted--his entire person felt disgusting, in all honesty. He blinked his eyes open. A glob of pâté glued a shrimp to the side of his nose. He plucked it off and tossed it aside with more vehemence than needed.

"DeChangy?" Colonel Renault asked.

His surname in that tone of voice spoke volumes to Raoul. There would be a talk in the near future, one that could well endanger his plans.

Raoul met the older man's polite, but judgmental gaze with as dignified a nod as he could manage with pâté dropping off his chin.

"This can wait, sir," the countess interrupted. "He needs to clean up now."

The pitying look Renault gave him was worse than any court-martial. Raoul turned, pulling his arm out of his mother's reach and stepped away. "If you will excuse me, sir."

Raoul didn't have to hear or see anything to know the reactions of his departure with his mother in his wake. It was worse than being a boy, dismissed from the gala because he'd yawned too loudly.

"Where is your worthless valet? He should be here," his mother complained as they entered his room.

"I gave him the night off, Maman," Raoul explained as he worked to unbutton the chain holding his jacket in place over his shoulders. There was so much food, he could get a tight hold of it. He glanced at his mother. Of course, she wasn't about to try to help and risk her own appearance in the process. "If he's wise, he and his wife are far out of touch at the moment."

"Inexcusable. He's looking for another position come morning, I assure you!"

Raoul sighed as he freed the jacket and then looked for someplace to drop the sodden mess. No where in the main room, so he headed for the bathroom and dropped it on the stone floor there. Emilé had readied a bath for him, so all that needed to be done was draw the water. Raoul decided to give him a raise and sack his mother.

With the water running, he barely heard her continued monologue on incompetence and how some people have no care about a proper gala. For a moment, he debated on closing the door but a glance showed her at his various wardrobes, going through his clothing for a new outfit.

He stripped to his trousers and dirtied two towels wiping the majority of the refreshments from his body. The uniform was ruined beyond all hope of recovery. Emilé might be able to salvage the boots, but Raoul wasn't certain it would be worth the effort.

Thinking back, he wasn't certain what had gone wrong. They had been fairly isolated from everyone else, with only Firmin and André nearby. Who would have guessed that Firmin would have acted on the Phantom's behalf?

Certainly not him.

It just made no sense.

But, then, nothing in the last several days had made much sense. Why should this be any different?

It would take a while for the tub to fill, unfortunately. He'd have to talk to his mother and get her out of the room before he could relax and pull his thoughts together. Sighing, he pulled a clean towel over his shoulder and went back into the main room.

Maman still stood in front of his wardrobe, hands on hips, frowning at the limited selection he'd brought with him. "You know the problem, Raoul," she said without turning. "It's simply impossible to trust help. If you want anything done, you must do it yourself. I wish I'd known that when I was young enough to make a difference."

He shouldn't ask, he knew better, but he couldn't stop himself. "What do you mean?"

She selected one of his favorite suits and carried it over to the bed for him, smoothing it out. "I should have tended to Erik when he was younger. What grief it would have spared all of us! But I was young and foolish and in love."

"How could you have tended to him? He could have been healed?"

"Oh no!" She laughed pleasantly, as if he'd just been extremely witty. "No, no, no, no. You see, when he was just a baby that--thing--grew on his face. I wanted to cut it off. _snip_ So simple, but the doctor told me if I did that he might bleed to death. The thought horrified your father, utterly horrified him. How different life would be if I'd just done it myself."


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note**:

Chapter Twenty One

A shiver ran down Raoul's spine as he stared at her as she went back to the wardrobe for a shirt.

"But, no. I stayed my hand until you were born." She gave him a sweet, loving smile over her shoulder as she sorted through his clothing. Raoul fought the urge to have everything washed before wearing it again. "My darling, beautiful boy. Everything he wasn't. My sweet Raoul. To imagine something as ugly as that--thing coming from my body.

"But you, you were my proof that God had not forsaken me." She added a shirt to his suit, still smiling. "I was still young and trusting then. Never trust a servant, Raoul. I've always taught you that, and this is why. They're greedy, no matter how generous you've been with them in the past. It's never enough."

"I've never forgotten the lesson," he said carefully.

"Good." She patted his cheek. "I'll go check your bath."

Raoul watched her glide across the room, feeling like he saw a beautiful stranger and not his mother. Bile rose to the back of his throat and he swallowed it down. He'd always known that attractiveness was important to her, but was it truly all-encompassing? He followed her to the doorway where she poured his favorite scent into the water and tested the temperature.

She didn't appear to be anxious to continue the ghastly tale, but Raoul didn't think it was the end. "Are there any particular servants I should beware of, Maman?"

"Oh, they're long gone, thankfully, and smart enough not to ask for any more money. That nurse and the gardener. They were well paid to tend to him and be certain it looked like an accident. How difficult could it be? For all that he was always strong, he was still a boy, after all. And they were right on the ocean, how difficult could it be? All they needed was a rowboat and have him wash up so your father would be able to weep and bury him. But no, no. They had to get greedy and sell him to the gypsies. Incompetence should never be tolerated, Raoul."

"Never," he agreed. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears, but she didn't seem to notice.

Maman smiled and shut off the bath water. "You were always my salvation. You know that, don't you? I'll tell everyone you won't be long. Don't disappoint me."

"I wouldn't dare."

She swept out of his room, gently closing the outer doors behind her.

All Raoul could do was stare after her.

How long it took for his thoughts to come back, he didn't know. He'd heard it, but it was beyond unbelievable. His mind could not accept it.

All the years Papa frantically searched for his lost son--all because the boy wasn't pretty enough?

_Do you only love me because I'm beautiful? Is that all the meaning I have to you?_

How could any mother arrange to have her own child killed?

Raoul tried to imagine standing over a son of his, helpless in his crib, wanting to kill him because of something as minor as a discoloration on his face that would not go away. Tried to imagine hating a child so much, he'd pay someone to commit murder. Yes, he'd wanted his brother dead, but that was for offenses already committed, not because he was unsightly.

He shivered again. His mother was a monster.

He finished undressing and climbed into the now-warm-not-hot water, submerging his entire body and soaking his hair.

Perhaps that was too harsh. She couldn't be a monster. She loved him, for whatever reason. She loved Papa. They both loved her.

But she'd paid servants to have her young son killed.

She'd talked about it just then, as if it was a secret he should have known from the cradle. Was it possible that she'd told him when he was too young to understand or remember, and always felt he was her ally in such a tragic event? That, somehow, he was part of her conspiracy?

Which would explain her reason for confiding in him after his bungled assassination attempt, to reassure him that she approved. That her luck had been no better.

Raoul dropped his face into his hands and didn't want to fight the tears.

She was a monster. He hated her, despised her, wanted nothing to do with her.

And yet he still loved his mother.

He rinsed his face and turned the tap back on to warm the water so he could finish his bath. His breathing still came ragged, but his mind was clearer.

Returning to the gala was the next thing on his agenda. He had to talk to the Colonel and, if possible, to Erik. He would keep his mother happy for tonight, but no longer. And Christine –

Christine. How many times had he challenged her—how could you love a man as evil as that? She could never explain it, only said that it was so. And he'd never understood.

Now—now, he understood.

Dear God in Heaven, he understood.

He'd tried valiantly to rescue her from a fate she didn't need rescuing from. He'd almost kept her from the life that would make her happiest. She wouldn't be happy during his time in the Ivory Coast, wouldn't want to safari or explore or any other adventure that he'd always wanted to pursue. No, he owed her a great apology.

There had been enough pain in this family, thanks to his mother's actions all those years ago. But Raoul couldn't merely allow himself to be seen as a comrade now that he realized it.

It had to end, and he had to end it.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Christine had fallen asleep in his arms, but Erik was too restless to lay in bed and hold her. He rose, pulled on his trousers, and went back to his rooms. He could hear the music still playing in the gala echoing down the hallway. Rejoining the party occurred, but disinterested him. Let them enjoy their gossip. He had no stomach for it and it would still be there in the morning and for years to come. Gossip was nothing new. He'd survived and thrived against much worst.

Erik closed the door and paced around his room. Like his room in the Paris townhouse, this was a storehouse of memories and gifts from his 'missing years'. A treasure trove he no longer resented but simply did not know what to do with. Like so much of his life of late.

What he should be doing is deciding where to take Christine on their wedding trip. He'd thought Vienna, but was not sure if she'd enjoy it as much as he dreamed she would. Perhaps, they should simply discuss it over breakfast in the morning, while the rest of the house was still abed.

The knock on the door caught Erik by surprise. He donned the dressing robe over his trousers and padded over in bare feet to answer it.

Raoul stood there. He had the air of a drunkard about him, though Erik could smell no alcohol on his breath. No, not a drunkard, but a man who'd had his world shattered around him and was still grasping at the shards.

"Are you going to press charges against me?" Raoul asked.

Erik regarded him for a moment. The Darkness still flared, still tempted, and he saw it clearly, but he was too weary to take the step necessary to fall into its grasp. "Are we still at war?"

The viscount considered. His eyes were hollow, there was no fight left in him. Erik didn't need the answering shake of his head or the quiet but firm "No" that followed.

"Then I have no reason."

Raoul nodded and turned to go.

Erik watched him for a moment, suddenly aware that he should talk more with Raoul. That there were things they should understand between them. That, for Christine's sake as well as their own futures, they should make some honest peace between them.

And, once again, words failed him.

Raoul disappeared from sight down the stairs.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Christine startled awake, surprised to find herself alone in the bed. It was still early, barely dawn. Everything around her was silent, but she swore she'd heard someone move in her room.

"Erik?"

She slipped out of bed, grabbing her dressing gown against the slight chill of the evening air. The embers in the fireplace still gave a faint glow, giving her enough light to see she was alone. She navigated the strange room to the door, reaching for the knob, but stopped when she stepped on something odd. Opening the door for more light, she found a note on the floor.

At first she thought it had to be from Erik. After all, who else wrote notes? But it was unsealed, not something Erik ever did. She stepped into the doorway to take advantage of the lamps in the hallway to read.

_My dearest Christine, _

_Tonight, I have come to understand many things I've never imagined possible before. Foremost among them was how you can truly love my brother. I pray, for your sake, that he truly loves you as well and that your lives together will be long and contended, for I doubt that I will return to Paris, or even France. My fortune and fate lies elsewhere and I mean to find it. _

_Please forgive me for leaving like this, but I see no other way to restore some semblance of grace or happiness to you and my family. By the time you read this, I will have already left the estate for my assignment in the Ivory Coast._

_I have been a fool in so many ways, I cannot beg enough forgiveness for, but as long as you are happy, Christine, perhaps that is forgiveness enough. I remain _

_Your brother-by-law and friend-by-love,_

_Raoul_

Christine wiped away tears. Raoul, gone? How could he just leave like that, with only a note? What had happened after she'd followed Erik to the wine cellar?

Yet, judging from the tone of the note, it was something no one else would be able to explain to her but Raoul. She wished he would've stayed to talk, at least. She couldn't imagine that the count would have disowned him, or that Erik would've allowed that to happen. No reason for him to leave, unless he'd already planned on it.

That did sound like Raoul.

She remembered his excitement when he spoke about his upcoming duties in Africa, how he looked forward to having time for a safari or two and all the world they'd get to see in their travels after they were married. How they'd never have to ever return to France again. That was the life he'd wanted, and now it was free to pursue it as much as he desired. Raoul had never wanted to be chained down to a name, a place, perhaps not even a single lover.

Whereas that was all Christine had ever wanted.

As odd as it seemed not to have him close by, she felt he'd made the right choice for himself this time.

"Be happy, Raoul," she wished, and meant it.

Gathering her robe tighter around herself, she walked across the hall to Erik's room and let herself in. She'd expected darkness, but every light blazed throughout the chambers. It made her smile a little, remembering the seeming thousands of candles he'd had lit in his underground lair the times she'd been there. While he ruled the darkness, he always craved light.

No one stirred in his rooms as she looked, but heavy winter bed curtains were pulled fully shut. She drew closer, actually surprised to hear the sounds of gentle snoring from within.

"He sleeps?" she whispered to herself in honest amazement. Even last night, when he'd spent the night in her bed before traveling here, she'd gone to sleep to his quiet song and woke to his smile. How odd to realize that he needed sleep like any other man.

Christine pulled back the bed curtain slightly to look at him.

He sprawled on his back, completely naked, one hip and thigh barely covered with the edge of a blanket. His head lay in a cradle of pillows carefully arranged to support his deformity securely, yet comfortably. It would take a little more engineering to arrange his bed so there would be room for her to stay the night. She was certain he was genius enough to handle the task.

She put a knee on the mattress to join him. Erik was awake instantly, sitting up, ready to strike and protect himself. Christine drew back slightly, startled, but he stopped his attack instantly.

"My pardon," he muttered.

"Perhaps I should sing something as I enter your room?" she teased as she crawled over to sit beside him. The joke raised a slight smile. She gave in to the temptation to smooth his hair back from his eyes. "Raoul's gone."

"I had nothing to do with it."

The instant denial made her chuckle. "As if you would. He left me a note. I didn't see one under your door."

"I would doubt that he jotted me a note." Erik leaned over and snapped open the curtains to allow in light before taking the note from her.

Christine allowed her gaze to travel down his body and take in his nonchalant glory. "Is it totally wicked of me to want to lick every inch of you?"

He glanced at her over the top of the page. "You should refrain yourself since it could ruin your voice."

She dropped her robe and stretched out against him. Skin to skin felt natural and still totally naughty. She loved the sensation. "Countesses don't sing professionally."

"And what reason have I to compose if you will not sing?"

Christine didn't know what thrilled her more—the fact that he'd compose again or that he didn't want her to leave the music she loved. "It would be a total scandal, you know."

Erik laughed outright and tossed the note aside. "After last night, my Angel, mere scandal would be a step up for me."


	22. Epilogue

Epilogue

1919

Travel never got this congested when horse-drawn carriages filled the streets. Raoul sighed and leaned back in the seat.

It was difficult to be back in Paris after all these years. First, to step into the family townhouse the day before and see it still decorated as it had been, still smelling of home after all these decades. Servants wearing updated family livery--it was almost as if the house had not changed at all. He'd stood in the foyer, almost expecting his mother to swoop down the stairs to greet him as she so often had. His mother had died almost forty years ago and now lay in the family tomb in Rouen.

The servants assumed he was there for the auction of the contents of the Opera Populaire. It had been hard to cover his shock. The building had been sold and would be demolished, but the Arts Council would sell off the contents. To go through those doors again, to see what time and war had done to all the beauty inside--even worse than what had been done during the fire. Then seeing Mme. Giry there, and the music box...

It was nearly too much to bear.

Raoul wished he didn't know why this was happening, but he knew. Without realizing it, his gaze dropped to the box of letters resting on the seat beside him. Without Christine, his brother would have no reason to repair the damage done by the war and reopen it again.

He picked up the black-lined envelope with the too-familiar skull seal. The seal was embossed and glued now, not the old-style wax, but with the scrawled handwriting, it was unmistakable.

His hand started to shake and he didn't open it. He knew every word inside by heart after these last two years, there was no need to read it again. The shock of Christine's death was still as fresh as it had been when he'd first read it. Erik's simple request that Raoul return to France for the funeral had been more compelling than Raoul liked to remember. That Erik intended to lay her next to her father's tomb and not in the family mausoleum in Rouen was touching. Raoul would have been there, if not for the damned war's limitation on commercial voyages across the Atlantic. Of all the times to be trapped in the United States, with Christine being laid to rest...

Raoul set the music box aside and placed the box of letters on his lap. Dear Christine. She'd written him dutifully of everything that happened in their lives almost from the day he'd left. He opened the box and swore he could still smell the delicate scent of the perfume she'd come to favor in her later life. So many of the letters were more frail than he was now,. He was afraid to open and read them again.

Christine had sent him newspaper clippings of the reopening of the Opera Populaire and the brilliant first production of _Don Juan, Triumphant!_, which she starred in once again. The curse lifted, the theater enjoyed a long history of positive reviews, stunning productions and rising profits.

It was almost a year before she'd written that she was expecting, and then about the birth of their first child, a daughter they'd named Marguerite. A son, Gustave, came next, closely followed by the twins, Sébastien and Simone. Baby Joséphine had been something of a surprise four years later.

Raoul chuckled to himself. 'Baby Joséphine' was over thirty now, with babies of her own. If he remembered correctly, only Sébastien had not married and didn't have a family.

Time passed too swiftly while he'd been otherwise occupied.

When he'd left, Raoul had been certain it was for the best. His fortune lay elsewhere, and he'd intended to find it. And he'd searched the world: Africa, to Indonesia, up to the Arctic, into the Americas and the wilds of Canada. Any place besides France.

He'd searched and his adventures had extracted a physical toll. His legs were now weakened because of extreme frost-bite in the Arctic his last journey there ten years ago. It had almost killed him. Only his intense refusal to remain crippled for the rest of his life got him back on his feet, astounding the finest medical minds Christine had insisted on sending to him. His lungs would no longer take the strain of extensive exercise, so walking a flight of stairs could tire him for hours.

Raoul had loved his life and would only do one thing differently if he had to live it over. He would not have run like a coward when he left. He'd run from his family, from Erik, from the horror that was his mother.

He looked up as his car finally cleared the confines of the city and picked up speed on the more open road to the cemetery. Only two things to do in Paris, and then he might well leave again. He had to say a final farewell to the one woman he'd loved and who, in her own way, always loved him. And to make peace with his brother.

That had been his intent upon arrive, at least, not to mention his reason for the impetuous purpose of the music box. Raoul was certain it was the one Christine had described all those years ago at the dinner table, the one Erik had made as a young man. It was the perfect peace offering to his brother.

Now, Raoul was not so certain. The old cowardice gripped him, urging him to turn around, to run again before anyone truly knew he was here. Erik was bound to be in Rouen, still several hours away. He could send the box to Erik. They need never meet again.

And die knowing he was as much of a coward as he'd come to fear.

Raoul opened the box of letters. The ones with photographs were noticeable for their size. While all the children were talented, only Marguerite's talent was with photography instead of music. Christine made certain he reaped the rewards of the girl's efforts over the years. He selected the last, and thickest, envelop. The paper rattled slightly as he opened it.

These were taken at the gala celebrating Erik and Christine's forty-fifth wedding anniversary the year before she died. There was a picture of the children performing music written by Gustave for the occasion. Joséphine was at the piano, Sébastien played the violin, while Gustave and Simone sang. And there was a photograph of the seven grandchildren, Raoul couldn't remember their names, dancing with a tolerant Mme. Giry with Christine and Meg in the background.

He continued flipping through them until he found the one he'd been thinking of, the only photograph of Erik ever taken.

Erik and Christine sat on a divan, his arm tucked around her. Even nearing sixty years of age, Christine was still slender and as graceful as she'd ever been. Unlike most photographs, they did not stare, death-like, into the camera, but gazed at each other. Erik still had a full head of hair perfectly white, was still robust despite his advanced years. His face was in profile, looking very much like their father, suave, handsome beyond his years, but Raoul could not mistake the love in his expression. In both of their expressions.

They'd have a love stories were told of. There were days that Raoul resented them, others that he envied them. They'd had the lives they'd wanted and fulfilled their dreams completely, just as he had. He was certain they would not change a day they had together, except, probably, the last one.

"A stag," his nurse, Sister Beatrix said, breaking into his thoughts. "How beautiful."

Raoul looked up, blinking away tears, and stared blankly at the animal. Beautiful, strong, majestic, free. He looked away quickly. The beast reminded him too much of Erik.

Out of the windshield, he saw the cemetery filling the horizon. His breath shook with emotion. Christine was the youngest of all of them. It was wrong that she had been the first to die.

His hands shook as he tucked the photographs back into the envelope and returned them to the box.

Sister Beatrix glanced back at him, probably thinking he was having a breathing spasm, but he ignored her. He had a decision to make, one that he'd made and re-made many times over the last two years. This time, he had to follow through. This time, he'd get no second chances.

They entered the cemetery and Raoul had to concentrate on old memories to direct the driver to the Daaé tomb. It was more complicated than he remembered from the few trips he'd taken while courting Christine, and they only got turned around once. Raoul felt rather pleased with his memory when it came into view.

Getting out of the car was more a chore now than it had been at the theater, but this was the part he'd been saving his strength for. Sister Beatrix gave him a glare when he refused the wheelchair and carried the music box himself and carefully set it on the base of Christine's tomb.

It was a beautiful stone, even if it was a sober portrait, not like the sparkling light Christine had always been. He wondered who had the greatest hand in the decorations. As his eyes fell on the cascade of ribbons and roses, he knew, and then wondered why he had wondered.

Starting to turn, something glinted and caught his eye. Raoul paused to look. A single red rose, tied with a black ribbon lay on the far edge of the base. A closer look-- Raoul caught his breath at the sight of the engagement ring he'd given Christine so long ago. The one she'd given Erik, or had Erik taken it from her? He didn't remember and didn't think it was important anymore.

What was important is that Erik had left it here, now. For him.

The rose was still perfect, far too perfect to have been lying there for hours, or days.

Erik was here. Nearby.

Raoul looked around, but couldn't see him anywhere.

His breathing grew ragged.

Erik was here, making the peace offering Raoul had been afraid to make. Erik, once again, proving he was more a man than Raoul was. Was he too afraid to take the offering, to truly give this a chance?

Raoul stepped forward and carefully picked up the rose. As he straightened, he saw the figure standing next to the tree. He locked gazes with Erik for a breathless moment.

The photograph had not lied. His brother was as much a force at eighty as he was fifty years ago. His traditional white mask merely made him far more stately than before. While Erik had a Death's head cane, he held it more like a weapon than as a necessity. What a fool he'd been to think he could ever entrap, manipulate or cripple Erik. How much more could have been gained if they'd banded together rather instead?

Even more important, how much could yet be gained?

Erik inclined his head and gestured towards the stone bench. An open invitation.

Raoul nodded, but turned and reached for the music box. Sister Beatrix was there and handed it to him with an encouraging smile.

Raoul went to sit and talk with his brother for the first real time in their lives.

Perhaps it was never too late to do things right.

**Author's Note**: And so, we come to the end of a tale. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have and that it fills in the various holes in the movie to your satisfaction. And, perhaps, if I've told this story well enough, you'll see, as I always have, that the movie has always said that it was Raoul who had to learn to be lonely--and I think he deserves this second chance.


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